


Fine Careless Rapture

by mille_libri



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 07:32:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5039404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mille_libri/pseuds/mille_libri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wulfric Cousland may be stuck creating an army out of nothing, but he intends to enjoy himself along the way, whenever and with whomever he pleases.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bella

Wulfric Cousland lounged in the corner of the tavern, a tankard of ale held loosely in one hand, his brown eyes focused on a single target: the red-headed barmaid, Bella. Bann Teagan had urged him to retire to the study after dinner for brandy and cigars, but Wulfric hadn’t had the heart for Teagan’s polite civility tonight. Not when Wulfric’s family rotted in the ruins of Highever Castle; not when Teagan’s brother lay poisoned and his nephew had become an abomination who had decimated the population of Redcliffe. Wulfric couldn’t imagine what he and Teagan would have talked about.

No, tonight he needed something a bit more … earthy. The sharp tang of the common ale, the raucous shouts of the people in their celebration of the end of the siege, the feel of a woman beneath him. And since neither Morrigan nor Leliana seemed amenable to a casual tumble, the most likely woman was the red-head with the invitation in her eyes. After all, he had promised her money to get away from the sordid work of a barmaid, so he had an excuse to seek her out again. For the rest, he trusted to his large, toned warrior’s body, aristocratic good looks, and the shock of dark brown hair that tumbled down over his forehead—women always seemed to want to reach up and brush it back. None of those attributes had ever failed him in his pursuit of an evening’s good time.

Bella seemed no exception. Her green eyes glanced his way more than once, as he sat watching her through half-lidded eyes. At last she sauntered over. “I should have thought you’d be celebrating at the Castle tonight, my lord.”

He sighed. So his identity was no longer a secret. The once taken-for-granted term “my lord” now brought with it a flood of pain, remembering the shambles in which that life had been left. His voice was steely as he said, “Not that title, not anymore. Warden, if you must. Wulfric, if you will.” None of his companions called him by name, he wasn’t sure why, and he missed the simple feeling of his own name being used in casual conversation.

“Wulfric, then,” Bella purred. “Still doesn’t say why you’re here in the tavern instead of off in the Castle with your friends. Lovely ladies you travel with,” she added, her eyes sharp as she watched for his reaction.

“’Travel’ being the operative word,” Wulfric said. 

Her eyebrows lifted. “Their loss, then,” she said.

“And your gain?”

A small smile turned up the corner of Bella’s mouth. “Could be. I have to close up first, though.”

He lifted the tankard. “I’ll be here.” 

Leaning back against the wall, he watched her move about the tavern. He ought to be tired—Maker knew it had been a long day—but he was afraid to sleep. The nights were torments, fire and dragons and darkspawn and the pictures his mind painted of his family’s last moments. Wulfric was afraid that if he closed his eyes, Redcliffe’s siege would be added to the jumble and he’d dream of his parents as walking dead. Or worse, Oren. Shuddering at the thought, he took another swallow of ale, content to sit here for a while longer in the midst of people instead of retiring alone to the room Teagan had given him. 

He nursed his ale as he sat there, not knowing what kind of maudlin mess he might turn into if he drank too much. Gradually the tavern emptied out (Bella’s unsubtle table-clearings and the increasing proportion of water in the ale Lloyd was pouring probably had something to do with that), and at last Bella turned to him.

“I’m surprised you’re still here.”

Wulfric stood up, watching her eyes widen. The tight breeches he was wearing left little to the imagination, and Bella appeared to like what she saw. “I was entranced by the finest view in Ferelden,” he said gallantly.

Bella snorted. “Between the Blight and the walking dead, that’s not much of an achievement,” she said, but she seemed pleased. She nodded toward a door at the back of the tavern, leading him through it and up a pair of rickety stairs to a small room. “It’s not much,” she said, “but it’s all mine.”

“Ah, that reminds me.” Wulfric detached a small pouch of coins from his belt. “This is yours.”

“I beg your pardon?” Her green eyes flashed, and Wulfric shook his head.

“Not what you’re thinking. I promised you this—take it and find a better life. And if you want me to turn around and go right now, this is still yours.” 

Bella’s face relaxed and she leaned back against the door. Wulfric heard it close with a soft click. “No, I don’t think you need to do that. Make yourself comfortable, Warden.”

“You first.” Wulfric sat down on the narrow bed, feeling a worrisome creak and shift as it settled under his weight. 

“If you like.” Bella smiled, beginning on the buttons at her bodice. Wulfric reclined on the bed, watching her emerging body as her clothes came off, piece by piece. “What do you think?” she asked when she was naked. She put her hands on her hips, posing provocatively.

He liked her confidence. It made her even more attractive. “Why don’t you come here and let me show you?” he said, his voice dipping low.

Bella sauntered across the room, straddling his lap. The bed creaked even more ominously as her weight was added to his, but Wulfric ignored it, turning his lips to her neck. Bella stretched her neck to the other side, letting him have access to the soft skin below her ear, and he nibbled and licked at her neck and earlobe. Wulfric’s hands moved down Bella’s back, sliding across her hips, pressing her down against the erection straining against the fabric of his breeches. She moaned, shifting on his lap to create friction. 

“Apparently you liked what you saw,” Bella whispered. She climbed off of him, kneeling between his legs as she worked at the laces on his breeches, the fabric slightly damp from her own arousal. Wulfric sighed in relief as she freed him from the confines of the tight cloth, and groaned when she took him unexpectedly into her mouth. She was clearly experienced, for she took him all the way without obvious discomfort, and Wulfric leaned back, his eyes closing. He moaned, his fingers tangling in her hair as she carried him toward the edge and pushed him over.

“Now we can relax and take our time,” Bella purred.

Wulfric opened his eyes, grinning lazily up at her. “I like the way you think,” he said. She helped him with his clothes, her eyes raking his body as he stood naked before her. “Do I meet with your approval?”

“I wouldn’t throw you back,” she said. She stepped forward, her hands stroking his shoulders as her mouth began to explore his chest, her fingers delving into the silky hair that covered it to find his nipples. Wulfric’s head fell back on his shoulders as she caressed him, his own hands cupping her firm rear. Bella’s teeth closed lightly on a nipple, and Wulfric gasped at the sensation. He picked her up, her legs winding around his waist, and carried her to the bed, laying her gently back on it. Her red hair spilled across the pillows. Wulfric’s hand traced her slender leg, fingers teasing the sensitive skin behind her knee and then moving up her inner thigh. He trailed his fingers lightly across her core. Bella bit her lip, arching up against him, and he did it again. He kept up the teasing light touches until Bella was panting. Then his fingers found her opening, two of them sliding inside. His thumb moved in circles across the sensitive nub, and Bella cried out, moving in time with his fingers. He felt her tighten and bent to take one hardened nipple into his mouth, sucking at it. Bella cried out, clutching his shoulders as she peaked. 

Wulfric withdrew his hand, licking his fingers and allowing her to come down from the heights of her pleasure.

Sitting up, Bella ran a hand over his chest, her fingers circling his length, dancing across the tip. She smiled at his strangled groan. “You have a preference, Warden?”

He shook his head. “Lady’s choice.”

“Well, then.” Bella pushed him down onto the bed, straddling him. She took him slowly, inch by inch, until she was fully seated on him. Wulfric’s hands found her hips. “You like it slow and steady?”

“Any pace you like,” he breathed. “I’ll keep up.”

“Hm,” she said, her eyes going half-closed as she moved again. “Too bad you’re just passing through.” And then there was no more talking as she moved on him, slow at first and then increasing the pace as her breathing grew more erratic, her head falling back. Wulfric watched her, the red flush of passion moving across her stomach and breasts and up onto her face, her hands in her own hair and then on her breasts. There was nothing more inspiring than a woman in the heat of passion, and he found himself meeting her movements with his own. As he felt himself getting close, he reached for the nub between her legs, his thumb moving rapidly over it, until Bella began to quiver, small whimpers of pleasure escaping her. Just as Wulfric didn’t think he could hold back anymore, the bed beneath him gave way with a resounding crack, the mattress landing on the floor. His hold on Bella’s hips kept her anchored to him, and when they landed she took him just that little bit deeper inside to send her over the edge, bucking wildly atop him. That view was too much for Wulfric, who climaxed with a shout.

Bella slid off him, onto the mattress amid the wreckage of her bed, and they both lay gasping for breath. 

At last she lifted her head, looking at the damage. “Good thing Lloyd was in the cellar trembling in fear during the attack last night, or he’d never buy that the walking corpses broke my bed.”


	2. Zevran

“So, my dangerous and exciting Warden, what is it that you do, here in camp at night? Sing songs, tell amusing stories, entertain yourself in the arms of one of your lovely female companions?” The Antivan’s voice rolled over Wulfric in a pleasant wave. It wasn’t just that Zev’s accent reminded him of Oriana’s and therefore of home. It was something else, a warmth and intimacy Zev automatically assumed that none of Wulfric’s other companions had ever managed. Perhaps it was because Zev wanted so much less. He seemed content simply to follow without question, without demanding from Wulfric a nobility he didn’t feel, a piety he didn’t share, a vengeance that paled in comparison to Wulfric’s already powerful need for revenge. Wulfric didn’t know what it was that Morrigan wanted, but she wanted something, practically panted with it, and it weighed on him all the more for not knowing what it was. “Apparently I am speaking only to myself,” Zev murmured. He sank back against the log he was leaning on, stretching his body sinuously in the warmth of the fire. 

“I’m sorry, Zev,” Wulfric said, watching the Antivan’s movements appreciatively. “We do all those things you said, but I find more often it’s the camp chores that take the time. Cleaning armor, fetching wood and water, the occasional sparring practice.”

“Apparently you do not know how to properly enjoy yourself, here in the wilds of Ferelden.”

Wulfric grinned. “I suppose that depends on what you mean by enjoyment.”

“Fereldans define it differently than Antivans?”

“According to what I’ve been told, yes.”

“Ah.” Zev turned his gaze back to the fire, staring into the hypnotic flames.

The two of them were the only ones by the campfire at the moment. Morrigan, as was her way, had disappeared into the forest on her own. She’d be back in the morning, when they were ready to leave, but couldn’t be counted on to return before then. Wynne had taken a pile of mending into her tent. Leliana was on watch with Throckmorton, Wulfric’s mabari, and Alistair’s snores echoed through the camp.

What Zev said was true—Wulfric wished for more companionship amongst the little group. But with so many strong personalities and points of view, any discussion was difficult. He laid his head back on the log, sighing.

“May I lay my cards upon the table, Warden?”

“What’s that, Zev?”

“You, my handsome Warden, appear quite … lonely. And here am I, exceptionally skilled in the ways of banishing loneliness, left with nothing to do.” Wulfric lifted his head, meeting the Antivan’s gaze. “There would need be no promises. Simply … warmth. Given and received, when needed.”

“Zev, I—“

A wicked smile curved Zev’s lips. He held up a hand to stop Wulfric’s response. “Do not waste your time or insult my intelligence by pretending you are not interested.” His eyes went to Wulfric’s groin, which was making its appreciation obvious. While men weren’t Wulfric’s preference, he’d enjoyed his few encounters with them, it was true, and Zev’s every movement practically screamed pleasure.

“Fine, then.” Wulfric stood up, holding a hand out to the Antivan. “Let’s go see if your mouth is useful for more than empty promises.” He grinned.

“Oh, Warden, how I will enjoy making you eat … those words,” Zev purred, following Wulfric to his tent.

Wulfric’s body filled the tent, his bulk looming over Zev’s smaller form. He used that advantage, leaning over the elf. Zev smiled lazily, recognizing the dynamic being built and accepting it. 

“Strip,” Wulfric said. 

“As you desire, so shall it be,” Zev said, his hands already busy at the buckles of his armor. Wulfric watched the elf’s body come into view, studying the lean muscles of the stomach, the long strong flanks, the proud manhood revealed as Zev removed his smallclothes. 

“Now me,” Wulfric said huskily. Zev chuckled deep in his throat, the sound warming Wulfric all through. The elf was skilled in armor removal, no question about it. Wulfric was stripped of his in far less time than it would have taken him to take it off himself. 

“Mm,” Zev murmured hungrily as he slid Wulfric’s last garment down the warrior’s legs. Zev’s hand circled Wulfric’s length, and the Warden pushed his groin forward into Zev’s hand. “Impressive, my Warden.”

“You like it?”

“It is most enticing.”

“Show me how much.” Wulfric pushed again, feeling Zev’s practiced fingers moving over his length, stroking and pressing and teasing. 

With an appreciative noise, Zev knelt, his mouth covering Wulfric’s erection without hesitation, the tongue swirling expertly in all the right places. Wulfric tangled his hands in Zev’s hair, feeling the Antivan’s moan reverberate against his hardened flesh. And then Zev’s mouth was moving. Wulfric hissed in disappointment. 

"Patience, my Warden,” Zev murmured. He nipped and kissed up over Wulfric’s flat belly to his muscular chest and shoulders. Wulfric took Zev’s head in his hands, holding the Antivan’s head still for a hard, plundering kiss.

Their bodies pumped slowly together, hardness against hardness, the friction causing Wulfric’s breathing to speed up. Holding Zev’s head with one hand, continuing the bruising kiss, Wulfric reached down and took Zev into his free hand, his thumb rubbing over the throbbing tip of Zev’s erection.

Zev whimpered under the attention, and he sagged in Wulfric’s arms. 

“Is this how an Antivan Crow seduces his victims?” Wulfric whispered into Zev’s ear, nipping the sensitive point. “By pretending to be overcome with passion?”

“You are … surprisingly inspirational,” Zev gasped. Wulfric lay the elf back on the bedroll, covering Zev’s body with his own. The assassin pressed up against him with a warm, satisfied moan, and captured Wulfric’s mouth again. They kissed enthusiastically, hands roaming over hard muscles. Zev shifted, rolling them so that he sat astride Wulfric’s chest. Bending, he moved his mouth down the side of Wulfric’s neck, not gently, his teeth nipping sharply at the skin there as Wulfric writhed under the treatment. Zev moved further down, biting at Wulfric’s shoulder and then taking a hard nipple into his mouth, his teeth pressing insistently into the skin.

“Ah, Zev!” Wulfric gasped, his hands gripping the elf’s shoulders desperately. He pushed the elf off of him, turning Zev over onto his stomach and yanking his head back by the hair, watching as the elf ground himself into the bedroll beneath him. “None of that, now,” Wulfric said, chuckling, as he pulled Zev up onto his knees. He wet his fingers, thrusting them carefully inside the assassin, stretching and moistening and preparing him, while the other hand slowly, lazily, stroked Zev’s length. “When I say, Zev, not before,” he whispered into the elf’s sensitive ear, feeling Zev panting against him as his tongue traced the shell of the ear. He nipped at the tip, causing Zev to cry out.

Wulfric removed his hands from the elf’s body, gripping Zev’s hips, and slowly thrust his way inside. Zev moaned beneath the assault, his head tipping back in pleasure. Wulfric began to move rhythmically, his hand seeking and finding Zev’s hardness and pumping at the same steady pace. Zev frantically tried to move faster, to thrust himself forward and back into the pleasure, but Wulfric held him steady. “Beg me,” he said, his voice rough with his own desire.

Zev cried out, his heat pulsing in Wulfric’s hand. “Ah … oh, please, my Warden, please!”

The words sent pleasure rushing through Wulfric. “Now, Zev,” he rasped, speeding up his thrusts and the motion of his hand. “Now!”

Zev began babbling in Antivan, the words increasing in rapidity and volume. With a final desperate snap of his hips, he spasmed, spilling his seed over Wulfric’s hand. Zev’s pleasure pushed Wulfric over the edge, and he felt the climax wash over him. “Zev,” he gasped, sinking to the bedroll, panting with exertion. 

“Warden,” Zev purred. “You are most accomplished. Care to explain where you received your training?”

“Natural skills,” Wulfric said, pulling the elf closer to him. 

“Oh, what an assassin I could make of you, were you not so … large,” Zev said lazily.

Wulfric shrugged. “Why make something so pleasurable into work?” He bent, kissing Zev’s temple. “Thanks. I needed that.”


	3. The Pearl

Wulfric stood outside the familiar building, feeling the rush of memories. His father had brought him here the first time when he was 16. After that, he had come with Fergus, ‘the Cousland boys painting the town red’, Fergus had said. And after Fergus was married, Wulfric had come here with his friend Ser Gilmore. He’d never been here alone; he’d never been here as anything other than Lord Cousland, with plenty of money to throw around. How would Sanga receive him now, as a cash-strapped Grey Warden whose family was disgraced? No way to find out unless he asked, he supposed.

He squared his shoulders and went into the Pearl.

Behind him, he heard Zev’s intrigued murmur, Alistair’s shocked gasp, and … nothing from Wynne. Interesting. Wulfric had always wondered what waters ran deep under the mage’s still surface. Not that he was particularly interested in finding out, but he gave Zev’s persistent pursuit of Wynne’s glories fairly good odds, if for no other reason than that Wynne allowed Zev’s comments to bother her. 

Sanga bustled forward. “My lord!”

Wulfric winced. “Not that anymore, Sanga. Warden.”

She nodded. “I was sorry to hear of your family.”

“Thank you,” Wulfric said, moved by the genuine sadness in her eyes.

“Is there anything...?” she began doubtfully.

“I was sent here by Sergeant Kylon, actually,” he said. “To help you with some rowdy customers?”

“Ah.” Sanga pointed to a group of men near the bar. “They have not treated my people well.”

“Say no more,” Wulfric said, resting a comforting hand on Sanga’s shoulder. “We’ll take care of them.”

His golden tongue, the persuasiveness coached into him for years at his mother’s knee, served him well, and the ruffians were gone quickly. He returned to Sanga. “They shouldn’t bother you any further.”

“Thank you, my … Warden,” Sanga said. “Now, is there anything I can offer you in return?”

Wulfric grinned at her. “I’m not sure what little I did deserves a reward.”

“Consider it a debt owed to your family. For your companions, as well,” she added, nodding toward the others. “But just this once, you understand.” 

“Of course. I would not presume upon your generosity.” He looked over his shoulder. “Anyone?”

“Y-You can’t possibly be considering …” Alistair stammered.

“Oh, but I can,” Wulfric said. “And so can you. It’s on the house, so it isn’t putting a strain on the purse, and we can all use the … distraction.” He turned back to Sanga. “He’ll want someone nice, but experienced. If you get my drift.”

“Really.” Sanga drew the word out while she eyed Alistair up and down. “Lucky girl.”

Alistair flushed bright red, but Wulfric noticed there were no further protests.

“Zev? Your … taste?”

“My Warden, my lady,” Zev said, bowing courteously to Sanga, “it is the pursuit that gives the achievement its value. I shall respectfully decline. Perhaps I might sample something for a different appetite?” He looked wistfully toward the kitchen, from which heavenly smells were wafting. “I have not had the prospect of such a fine meal before me since I left Antiva.”

“Your meal will be my pleasure," Sanga replied.

“I am certain that it will also be mine.” Zev bent gallantly over her hand.

“Wynne?” Wulfric raised an eyebrow. Wynne studied him for a moment, then stepped forward, whispering quietly in Sanga’s ear.

“Of course,” Sanga said. “A fine choice.”

Zev burst out laughing. “Wynne, I am chagrined that your beautiful bosom shall be someone else’s plaything, but I am heartened to see that the pursuit is not necessarily fruitless.”

Wynne’s eyes twinkled, but she said nothing. Wulfric sat down at the table next to Zev, waiting while Wynne and Alistair were led to rooms in the back. At last, Sanga returned, her eyes soft as she looked at him. “What is your pleasure, my lord?”

He started to protest the honorific again, but she shook her head. 

“Sometimes nobility is earned,” Zev murmured quietly. He sighed in ecstasy as a plate piled high with steamed seafood was placed in front of him. “Oh, for the scent of leather. Then I should feel completely at home.”

Wulfric stood up. “I trust your judgment,” he said to Sanga. “Surprise me.”

And that was how he found himself standing in the middle of a room naked but for a black hood tied over his head. There was a breathing hole for the mouth, and he could hear clearly, but he could see nothing. He’d seen the hood sitting on the bed, and something inside him had responded immediately. This was what he needed—to give over command, even for a short time, to someone else. His cock was already hard by the time he’d stripped his clothes off and put on the hood.

He waited patiently, hands at his sides. After what seemed a long time, the door closed behind him. “On your knees,” hissed a female voice. 

Wulfric obeyed immediately.

“Speak when you obey.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Wulfric said.

“Better.” He heard the tap of high heels on the floor as she came closer. “You were not bidden to undress. It must be punished.” A whistling sound preceded the sharp sting of a riding crop against the back of his thighs. Wulfric winced, but said nothing. “Good boy,” Mistress said approvingly.

Wulfric waited patiently to be told what to do next. The stasis itself was somehow comforting, knowing that his only responsibility was to obey.

The click of heels receded across the floor, away from him. “Come to me.”

“Yes, Mistress.” He began to stand up, but the sharp voice cut through the air, stinging like the whip had done.

“On your hands and knees!”

“Yes, Mistress. Forgive me.” With a brief flashing thought of how ridiculous he must look, on hands and knees he scuttled across the floor in the direction the heel clicks had gone, only to hear her moving again. He couldn’t hear her footsteps clearly over the sound of his own shuffling knees, so he had to stop and listen before he resumed his movement. As soon as he moved, so did she. He chased her around the room for a fair amount of time before he caught up with her. With a near-whimper of relief, he bent and kissed the tips of her shoes, feeling soft leather beneath his lips.

“Well done,” she said. “Rise.”

He did as he was bidden, and nearly groaned with pleasure as soft hands, covered in what felt like velvet, stroked his shoulders and chest and stomach. A tongue delicately touched his nipples, and small cries were jerked from Wulfric at the touches. He swayed toward the mouth, wanting more.

The velvet-clad hands slid over his abdomen, stopping just before his aching hardness. He moaned, thrusting his hips forward, and then she did touch, a slap across the length of him, sending pain and pleasure pulsing through his body. “None of that,” she said.

“I-I’m sorry, Mistress,” he breathed.

She wrapped her gloved hand around him, tugging firmly until he had to step forward. It was humiliating to be led by his manhood, and in the darkness and silence of the room he reveled in it. His thighs bumped against an obstruction—the edge of the bed, possibly—and the hand left him. He whimpered at the loss of the velvet softness.

He heard soft sounds of her body moving. “Now,” she said. “Put that clever mouth to work. But keep your hands at your sides.”

Wulfric got carefully down on his knees. He could smell her arousal, and he moved his head forward until his nose bumped against soft skin. Her inner thigh. Slowly, with just the tip of his tongue, he explored his way up her leg until he reached the smooth, bare flesh. He ran his tongue over her folds, tasting the musky flavor of her desire, and flicked the tip across the throbbing nub of flesh at the top.

“Very good,” she said breathlessly. “Continue.”

He applied himself to his task. It was difficult not to use his hands, especially as the woman began to squirm in response to his ministrations. Several times he caught himself reaching up to hold her down, or to brace himself against the bed, and her voice, sharp even through the passion that thickened it, would reprimand him. At last she spasmed, her hips lifting off the bed as she cried out. Wulfric straightened, keeping his hands firmly at his sides despite his desperate desire to touch himself and relieve the near-painful torment he felt.

“You have done well,” she said. “Stand.”

He did so, painfully, his knees sore from so much time on them. And then there was a warm, soft mouth on him. She took him deep into her throat, working him with tongue and hand. It took very little time before he was snapping his hips, fighting to remain standing while the release poured through him.

The velvet-gloved hand reached for his, leading him to the bed. He sank into the welcoming softness, the scent of roses rising from the pillowcase beneath him, and he knew no more until he awoke to bright sunlight streaming through open curtains. The color and light, after so much time spend in the dark, revitalized him, and he sat up, ready to get back on the road. Bless Sanga’s heart, she always knew just what he needed.


	4. The Dalish

It was a muted celebration in the Dalish camp. Too many of their people had been lost for the clan to disport themselves in boisterous joy. And they mourned for their Keeper, Zathrian, even as they rejoiced at being saved from the werewolves.

Wulfric found a quiet spot in a shadowy corner of the camp to stretch out his legs. He lay back, his head pillowed on his cloak, looking up at the stars. The voices raised around the campfires reached his ears, the songs and stories forming a symphony with the sounds of the forest, and he relaxed, feeling unusually peaceful. Tomorrow there would be work to do—seeking out Flemeth, killing the Witch of the Wilds on Morrigan’s behest—but for tonight there was stillness, the day’s impossible task completed.

The quiet was short-lived, however. Not far from him he heard a rustling in the underbrush, then the unmistakable quiet giggle of a woman being pursued by her lover. Gheyna, if Wulfric had to guess, finally allowing Cammen to ‘bond’ with her. After a moment’s thought, however, Wulfric revised his opinion. If Cammen had the stones to pursue the girl, he wouldn’t have needed Wulfric to intercede in their standoff. Wulfric wasn’t sure what a woman as lovely as Gheyna saw in soft, biddable Cammen. He’d considered showing her what a real man could be like, but it didn’t seem worth it—she was clearly destined to end up with the other elf; why ruin her enjoyment of the lad for an evening’s sport?

No, this was not Gheyna—the giggles were of a deeper timbre. Wulfric lay still, a grin spreading across his face as he heard the faint thud of two bodies coming together.

“Don’t think I didn’t see you watching him.” Because the words were whispered, Wulfric couldn’t be sure whether the voice was female or male. The sigh that followed it, however, was most definitely female.

“All I did was look.” 

“What have I told you about looking at men?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—“ A strangled, aroused cry cut off the words.

Then the whisperer spoke again. “You let a shemlen get you all wet like this?” 

The woman’s response was a moan that gave way to kissing sounds. Wulfric felt himself stirring. Slowly, he got up, stepping with great care closer to the voices.

“Creators!” The woman was gasping now. “Lanaya, please!”

Lanaya? Wulfric stopped his progress toward the lovers, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. The new Dalish keeper, Lanaya, having an assignation in the forest with another woman? He licked his lips. This had just gotten quite a bit more interesting. He hastened his progress, wondering which woman Lanaya was embracing.

“Tell me you wanted him,” Lanaya whispered harshly.

A desperate moan came from the other woman. “Yes! Yes, I wanted him. Wanted his big shem body on top of me.” The voice was breathless, punctuated with moans and gasps.

Wulfric took a moment to wonder which shem it was who had heated these elves up. He supposed it could be Alistair, whose blushes and stammers in the presence of women had faded somewhat after their visit to the Pearl … but he thought it was far more likely to have been him. And that had definite possibilities. He could think of worse things to do with a beautiful night in the forest.

“And would you enjoy it? Tell me, Mithra,” Lanaya said.

Mithra, too? The feisty warrior giving herself so submissively? Well, this was beyond amazing, Wulfric thought. He couldn’t have dreamed a more arousing scenario. And in that opportune moment, he pushed through the brush and he could see them, Lanaya’s lips at Mithra’s throat, Mithra’s hips pumping helplessly against Lanaya’s hand.

He trod, not so accidentally, on a branch. Lanaya drew in her breath and looked around sharply. Mithra cried out, bucking in unmistakable climax, her eyes fixed on Wulfric.

“How dare you intrude on a private moment?” Lanaya snapped.

“Hardly private.” Wulfric grinned. “I could hear you from way over there. And since I seem to be the star attraction, I thought you might not mind if I joined you. She certainly doesn’t.” He looked at Mithra, whose eyes were half-lidded as she leaned back against the tree, her breathing slowing. Lanaya looked undecided, and Wulfric decided firm action was called for. He moved swiftly closer to the two women, catching Lanaya by the waist and kissing her before she had time to protest. He sensed she was the one who needed to be won over, and trusted to his practiced lips and tongue to manage the feat. Lanaya struggled for a moment, then he felt her hand twine into his hair, holding his head still as she returned his kiss.

Mithra pushed herself away from the tree, her hands moving to Lanaya’s hips. Her mouth found the sensitive tip of her lover’s ear, and Lanaya moaned into Wulfric’s mouth. One of his hands moved to her leg, finding a smooth, soft expanse of skin between the top of her stocking and the bottom of her robe. He lifted her leg, wrapping it around his waist, his hand moving farther up to cup her firm bottom and press her more closely against his growing erection. 

Lanaya gasped and panted between the two of them as Wulfric’s lips moved over her jaw. Mithra was pulling the skirt of her lover’s robes up over her hips, leaving the way clear for Wulfric’s big hand to find the wetness at the core of the Keeper. Lanaya moaned. As Wulfric’s fingers delved deep into the Keeper’s heat, Mithra went to work on Lanaya’s robes, deftly manipulating buckles, ties, and straps. When Lanaya was naked, Wulfric stepped back, ignoring the Keeper’s whimper of disappointment. His eyes raked her lush naked body. Absently one hand rubbed at his length, straining against the fabric of his pants, and huskily he said, “Now it’s her turn.” 

Mithra moaned softly as Lanaya turned, nimble fingers unbuckling the breastplate of her lover’s brief Dalish armor. Both women sighed as Mithra’s small pert breasts were exposed to the night air. Lanaya’s mouth found a hardened nipple, suckling, as her hands moved to the skirt of Mithra’s armor. Wulfric watched all of this with a heavy-lidded gaze, almost unable to believe he was standing in a forest glade watching two beautiful naked elven women fondle each other. 

As he watched, Mithra whispered something into her lover’s ear, nipping the sensitive tip for emphasis, and both women giggled. Then they were on him, small hands everywhere on his body, removing his clothes and stroking the newly exposed skin. Wulfric gasped with desire, pressing himself against the hands.

“He’s so big,” Mithra whispered. Her strong hand, and then her mouth, enveloped Wulfric’s length, her tongue dancing skillfully along the throbbing flesh. Wulfric took Lanaya in his arms again, plundering the Keeper’s willing mouth with his tongue, his hands finding her wet heat again and stoking the fire there.

Before he could send her over the edge, the Keeper tore her mouth and body away. “I want to see you inside her,” she said authoritatively.

Mithra sighed her appreciation for that idea, removing her mouth from him. Wulfric took the elf warrior’s arms in his hands, lifting her toward him, but she wriggled away. “Lie down.” The huskiness of her voice sent shivers through him. Lying down sounded like a fine idea. So he did, arranging himself comfortably. 

Lanaya knelt next to him. Mithra stood at her side, moaning as Lanaya buried her face in the golden hair between her lover’s legs, while Lanaya’s hand reached for Wulfric’s length, working him into full readiness. Her free hand sought her own dampness. Soon all three were panting and groaning. Lanaya moved back, guiding Mithra to her knees, straddling Wulfric. Her hand still on Wulfric’s erection, Lanaya brushed the tip over Mithra’s eager folds, teasing them both. 

At last Mithra sank down, Wulfric’s length sliding deep inside her. He groaned with the contact. Mithra threw her head back with a sharp gasp as she rose and fell. Lanaya knelt at Wulfric’s head, her wet folds hovering just above his hungry mouth. His tongue reached out, tracing a path through the slick heat as the two women kissed passionately. Locked together as they were, each movement made by one reverberated through the others, and it wasn’t long before the forest glade was filled with the song of their completion.

“It appears shemlen are good for something after all,” Mithra remarked at last. The two women lay comfortably in each other’s arms, looking sated and sleepy.

“My ladies, I am at your disposal at any time,” Wulfric said. He got up, hunting for his clothing in the shadows of the glade. “You have my thanks for a very pleasant celebration.” 

He left them there, kissing and whispering to each other. One thing you could say about Blight-ridden Ferelden, he thought, heading back to the Wardens’ camp, you could never tell where the next adventure was going to come from.


	5. Morrigan

The camp was slowly settling for the night. Alistair and the mabari were on patrol; everyone else was asleep already, worn out by the battle with Flemeth. Everyone but Morrigan. She hunched over her fire, occasionally glancing Wulfric’s direction, her eyes filled with questions.

Wulfric stood up, stretching. Wynne had done an amazing job healing everyone’s injuries today. He blessed the day the mage had decided to join them; without her they’d all have died several times over by now.

Reaching into his pack, he removed a blackened book, heavy with the power it held. He didn’t miss the way Morrigan’s eyes flew to the book as if magnetized. Wulfric sauntered across the camp toward Morrigan’s fire, holding the book out to her. She reached for it, her hands trembling, all but snatching it from his hands. 

“You know,” he said, watching her as she greedily paged through the tome, seeming to have forgotten he was there, “I’ve known a lot of people who referred to their mothers as ‘the old dragon’, with some justification. But in your case, that turned out to be more than just an idle insult.”

Morrigan tore her eyes away from the tiny neat lettering on a yellowed page and looked up at him.

Wulfric stared down at her. “A little warning might have been nice.” 

For a moment, she looked abashed. Then her customary haughtiness reappeared, masking her feelings. It had long been Wulfric’s belief that Morrigan hid behind her cool disdain because she was afraid to let go of her mother’s warped teachings; the same way she bared her body in a silent challenge to anyone who might think she felt normal human urges. Wulfric thought it would be extraordinarily erotic to see naked Morrigan—not just the body under her clothes, but the person under the scantily clad body. 

The silence stretched between them. At last, Morrigan closed the book with a harassed sigh and stood up. “I hope you do not expect me to apologize. If you thought the task I requested would be a simple one, then it is you who owes me the apology—I would not have asked of you something that could easily be done by another.”

She certainly had gall. And he supposed she had a point. “Well, no one died. Er, except Flemeth. So I suppose we can consider it a lesson learned on both sides.”

“I suppose.” Morrigan took a deep breath, looking like someone who had finally answered a nagging question. “Wait here.” She ducked into her tent and emerged a few moments later without the book. She faced Wulfric. “I owe you my thanks.” With a shrug of her shoulders and a slight tug at the sleeve on her left arm, her top drifted down over the pale skin of her torso, exposing small but perfectly formed breasts. 

Wulfric raised his eyebrows. “This is unexpected.”

“Why should it be so? You are no stranger to the appetites of the flesh—what more appropriate thanks could I provide?”

“Put your shirt back on, Morrigan.”

“Do not pretend to find me unattractive. I have seen the way your eyes linger.”

“Of course I find you attractive. You’re a beautiful woman, and you well know it. You use it as a tool.”

A small smile played across Morrigan’s face at the admission.

“But I don’t want you this way.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion. “What other way would there be?”

“You don’t need to use your body as barter, not with me. I faced down Flemeth on your behalf because you are a valuable ally and I didn’t want to lose you, not out of some desperate desire to bed you.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping into a lower register as he thought of the possibilities a night with her contained. “I want you, Morrigan, I won’t deny that, but not because you think you owe it to me.”

She made a disgusted noise. “You disappoint me, Warden. I thought you were above all this nonsense about love.”

Wulfric laughed. “Who said anything about love?”

“But—you said—“ Her voice trailed off and she shook her head. “You are a very strange man.”

“Not so strange. You and I, Morrigan, we are creatures of practicality. Even if love were my ultimate goal, which I’m not sure it is, there’s no time for it now. The Blight comes first. But that doesn’t mean coupling must be emotionless, performed out of duty. If I take you, Morrigan,” he said huskily, “I want to know that I hold Morrigan in my arms, not a grouping of women’s body parts.”

She drew herself up stiffly, affronted. “I have had ample experience, if that is what you are implying. I have been told I am quite skilled.”

Wulfric grinned at her. “If I had a copper for every time I’ve been told I am ‘quite skilled’, we’d be sleeping in the finest inns in Ferelden every night. But that’s not the point.” He stepped even closer, his body nearly brushing hers. “These men you’ve bedded, were they your choice or Flemeth’s?” Her silence was answer enough. “Have you ever been with a man who truly desired you, Morrigan? A man who has studied your mouth, wondering if your lips are really as soft as they look?” He let his breath waft over her neck as he whispered into her ear. “A man who has dreamed of your sharp tongue calling his name, a man who has spent hours imagining ways to make you lose your iron control and shatter into pieces in his arms?” Wulfric’s lips brushed her earlobe on the last word, and he felt her shiver at the contact. He stepped back, feeling warm satisfaction in his veins at the sight of her dazed expression, her full lips shaped and ready for kissing. “It is that desire that I ask of you, Morrigan, and I will accept nothing less. Let me know when you want that, too.”

He’d gone only a few steps when he heard her voice, unusually soft and shaky. “Wulfric.”

Wulfric turned to look at her.

“Show me.”

“Tell me what you want.” He crossed the space between them.

For answer, she stood on her tiptoes. Her mouth opened, her sharp white teeth gleaming in the firelight, and she bit his neck. Hard. Wulfric gasped in surprise and pleasure. His hands stroked down the satiny skin of her bare back, cupping her rear through the leather skirt and pulling her body against him. Morrigan bit him again, and he chuckled.

“You learn fast.”

“You are not the only one who has spent time imagining things,” she whispered. Her hands urgently tugged at his shirt, pulling it out of his pants and pushing it up over his chest. She bit his chest this time, and Wulfric hissed sharply. There would be bruises the next day, he assumed. The idea of being branded with the marks of Morrigan’s teeth was surprisingly erotic. 

He dropped the shirt to the ground behind him. His hands skimmed up her sides, covering her breasts. Morrigan made an appreciative sound as he gently massaged them, his thumbs flicking her nipples into hardness. “You are beautiful, Morrigan. Let me see all of you,” he whispered.

In answer, she pushed the skirt down, her smallclothes falling to the ground along with it. Wulfric stepped back, his eyes raking over her lovely white body, turned golden in the firelight. “You are everything I dreamed you would be. Do you taste as good as you look?”

“Come find out.” Amusement glimmered in her golden eyes.

Wulfric didn’t wait to be asked twice. He reached for her, long arms enfolding her and bending her back so his mouth could reach her pert pink nipple. His tongue circled it over and over before he drew it into his mouth, sucking strongly. Morrigan’s fingers dug into his shoulders. Wulfric’s mouth moved up over her collarbone and along her shoulder. He cupped her buttocks, pulling her against him. Morrigan wrapped a leg around his thigh, lifting herself off the ground.

He scraped his teeth against the side of her neck and nibbled on her earlobe. 

Morrigan gasped, untangling herself from him. “Remove the rest of your clothing,” she commanded. “I, too, wish to see everything there is on offer.” Wulfric understood the order for what it was—a moment’s respite from her feelings, to regain control of herself. 

Grinning, he attended to his clothing. He couldn’t resist the urge to stroke himself as his erection came free of his smallclothes. He was hard and throbbing already.

A small whimper escaped Morrigan at the sight of him touching himself, and her own hands slid almost furtively into the dark hair between her legs. Her face flushed as she touched herself and she threw her head back, her hips moving in a sinuous circle. 

Wulfric couldn’t take it any longer. He practically leapt across the space between them, reaching for her. “Kiss me, Morrigan.”

A small shudder wracked her, but whether that was in response to the movement of her hands or his words, Wulfric didn’t know. Then her arms were twining around his neck and her mouth was on his, her lips as soft as he had imagined they would be. He thrust his tongue into her mouth again and again, feeling the vibration against him as she moaned. Her pelvis moved with eager urgency, and Wulfric lifted her in his arms. She was so light and slender, and so graceful, that he could lift her easily. Her wetness brushed over his length and they ground together, the tension nearly unbearable. 

“You are a witch,” he breathed into her ear. “You certainly have me under a spell. I ache for you.”

“And I, my Warden.” Morrigan’s thighs gripped his hips and she raised herself, allowing Wulfric to find her entrance. Slowly she lowered herself onto him, their eyes locked together as he filled her. 

“Morrigan!” Wulfric’s voice was hoarse. He collapsed onto his knees, fighting the urge to close his eyes. He wanted to watch her face. 

Biting her lip, her golden eyes half-closed, Morrigan raised and lowered herself again. The restraint of her pacing was driving Wulfric crazy. He pulled her into a kiss, devouring her mouth frantically, his hips moving against her of their own volition. Morrigan wrapped her legs around his waist, clinging to him as she met his kiss, but he could feel the restraint in her, feel practice and precision in her movements rather than the frenzy that filled him.

Abruptly Wulfric broke the kiss, lifting her off of him. “How you go to my head,” he whispered. Somehow he had to regain control of this encounter. Her response, her very scent, filled him with a lust few women had inspired within him.

Morrigan reached for him, her mouth seeking his, but Wulfric spun her around in his arms, pressing against her back. He couldn’t resist rubbing himself against the firm curve of her buttocks, his eyes closing at the feel of her silky skin. Morrigan started to move within his arms, but he held her tightly. 

“Let yourself go, Morrigan.” His mouth found the sensitive tendon where her neck met her shoulder, and his hands moved down the front of her body, stroking and caressing every inch of her skin, holding her in place, making her feel the fire he was stoking inside her. Every gasp she made, every movement of her body to press against his hands, increased the ache inside him. But he would feel her lose control first, would make her cry his name. Practiced fingers slid into the wetness between her legs. Morrigan pushed against his fingers, biting her lip to keep from crying out. 

But as his fingers thrust and pressed and stroked, she couldn’t hold it in. Panting became whimpering became moaning became crying out until at last she screamed his name, her body trembling in his arms. 

Her abandon sent spikes of fire through Wulfric, and he rubbed himself against her backside as she leaned on him. He ached to bury himself inside her, his own control shredded.

As Morrigan’s ecstasy subsided, she turned in Wulfric’s arms. “Is that what you wished for?”

“Almost.” He gasped as her hand found him, his hips twisting. 

“There is something else you desire?” 

In her eyes Wulfric glimpsed a strange mixture of pride and fear and it didn’t surprise him that she was taking the lead now, asserting her own power. “Take me inside you. Now, Morrigan, please!”

“Mmm.” She chuckled against his neck, her lips tracing a path toward his ear. “So eager.”

Her teasing tone and the insistent stroke of her hand stripped him of the last vestiges of control. With a deep, guttural growl he laid her back on the ground, finding and entering her with a sure stroke. Morrigan’s eyes closed as he filled her. 

Wulfric managed to take it slowly, despite every nerve in his body clamoring to slam into her, to hurry toward release. He wanted Morrigan to feel it, too. Holding himself off the ground with one arm, he thrust slowly, finding the little nub and rolling it between his fingers. Morrigan pressed up against him, her head thrown back, and he moved again, deep inside her. He took it as slowly as he could manage, trembling with the effort. He couldn’t remember ever having been this aroused—something about this woman set his whole body on fire.

Morrigan’s mouth opened wider, her hips stilling in their movement. Wulfric felt her muscles rippling around him, and her beautiful face contorted in the violence of her pleasure. He couldn’t hold himself back any longer. With a final thrust and a shout, he climaxed.

When he could breathe again, he rested his head in the curve of her shoulder, pulling her against him. He felt boneless, unable to move, and he wanted nothing more than to lie here with her. Morrigan’s arms wrapped around his shoulders and she held him against her, her fingers idly playing with his hair.

Wulfric could feel the exact moment when Morrigan’s natural distrust and aloofness returned, and he moved accordingly, standing up and helping Morrigan to her feet.

“I hope you will not assume that this makes us a … couple.”

“I hope you won’t assume once is going to be enough.”

A smile touched the corners of her lips. “I may require further demonstrations of your point.”

“Good enough.” He retrieved his clothing, strolling toward the wash bucket, unable to keep the satisfied grin off his face.


	6. Wynne

“Warden, I believe I must speak with you.”

Wulfric looked up, surprised, as Wynne took a seat on the log next to him. “Of course, Wynne. Any time.” He laid his sword and the polishing cloth aside, turning to look at the older woman. “There’s no need to be so formal.”

“Well, it’s … You seem very taken with each other.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Me and Morrigan? Is that what this is about? Or is it me and Zev?”

“Ah, no. Specifically, this concerns Morrigan.”

“And you’re concerned about what?”

Wynne sighed. “I just wonder, my boy, if you know what you’re doing.”

Wulfric grinned at her. “I assure you, Wynne, I know exactly what I’m doing. I’ve been told I’m quite good at it.” Wynne turned red, looking away from him.

“That is not what I mean, and you know it. Next thing, you’ll be asking me about griffons.”

“I don’t think I’d be compatible with a griffon.”

“Will you be serious?” Wynne snapped.

“Are you seriously trying to talk to me about my relationship with Morrigan? Let me guess, you’re concerned she’ll distract me from my duty. Or poison me in my sleep. Or otherwise corrupt me, scion of all that is pure and noble?”

“Something along those lines,” Wynne admitted.

“There’s nothing to worry about. It’s just … something to do, to keep us amused on the march. No different than what I’ve shared with Zev.”

Wynne’s eyes regarded him with skepticism, but she didn’t argue, and Wulfric was glad of it. There was more between him and Morrigan than he cared to admit, and he tried to keep that knowledge hidden as thoroughly from himself as from others.

“Be that as it may,” Wynne continued, “I don’t trust her. And it concerns me that your feelings for her will make some of the choices you may have to make more difficult. Love is ultimately selfish, and—“

“Love? Who said anything about love?” Wulfric glanced sideways at the older woman. “Surely you, Wynne, recognize the difference between the release of physical tension and love.” An idea stole into his head, and with a grin he sidled closer to the mage. “Don’t you?” He pitched his voice soft and deep.

Wynne raised her eyebrows. “You would have me believe you feel nothing for Morrigan?”

“Believe what you like. Maybe I could prove it to you.” Wulfric reached for Wynne’s hand. He stroked the tender flesh between her thumb and index finger, the skin surprisingly soft and supple under his touch.

“You’re young enough to be my grandson.” Wynne’s tone was firm as always, but there was a slightly breathless quality that suggested interest.

“I’m sure you could provide me with an education.”

“Don’t be condescending,” Wynne snapped. 

“I wasn’t. I’ve seen the way you drink and flirt with Oghren, and how you pique Zev’s interest while pretending you feel none—you’re far from inexperienced. We might have something to teach each other. Or we could simply enjoy one another.”

“Zevran and Morrigan aren’t enough for you? I would think you would try your wiles on Leliana before making overtures at the resident old lady.”

“Variety is the spice of life.” Wulfric grinned at the mage. “And Leliana is a special case, requiring a certain amount of wooing.”

“And I don’t?” He saw the glimmer of humor in her eyes.

“Would you like this better? Oh, Wynne, your charms have captivated me and I find I am unable to—“

“Stop that nonsense at once, you ridiculous boy!”

“Not until you say yes.”

Wynne studied him for a moment, then looked down at their hands, still entwined. Suddenly she smiled, her eyes sparkling. “Young man, you are incorrigible.”

“Is that a yes?” 

Wynne nodded, looking bemused. 

Wulfric stood up from the log, helping Wynne to her feet. “The only question that remains, then, is: your tent or mine?”

“Mine, if you have no objections. An old lady likes the comfort of her own bedroll.”

“Lead on, my lady.” Wulfric followed Wynne to her tent, ignoring the smirks and curious stares from Zev, currently on watch, and Morrigan, poring over her mother’s grimoire as always. Sten, also on watch, remained as impassive as ever. Tomorrow, this would be all over the camp. Clearly, Wulfric decided, he needed to forestall Zev’s teasing tongue by making Wynne wake the entire camp by screaming his name tonight. 

Inside Wynne’s tent, she turned to face him. “Lamp on, or off?” Her eyes held his, a challenge clear in the steady look.

“I like to see what I touch,” he said. 

In answer, her fingers deftly manipulated a buckle, and the robe slid off her shoulders, falling in a soft pile of cloth on the floor. Wynne stood before him in only breastband and smalls. Her body, while pale, was still surprisingly firm.

“Wynne,” Wulfric said. “I had no idea. Oh, how Zev would drool over your bosom if he could see you now.”

The mage smirked. “I am certain he will want to know all the details tomorrow.”

Wulfric moved toward her. “Shall I oblige him?”

“You should do as you like.” Wynne closed her eyes, her head falling back, as Wulfric’s big hands skimmed over her stomach and moved softly over her hips and down the outside of her thighs. He pulled her against him so that the growing bulge in his breeches pressed against the junction of her thighs, and Wynne made a warm, appreciative sound in the back of her throat.

Wulfric gazed at her mouth for a moment, but somehow, while he had no trouble desiring to explore the secrets of Wynne’s body, he couldn’t imagine kissing her mouth. He moved his lips to the hollow at the base of her throat instead, licking the skin and nipping at it.

He felt Wynne’s hands on his shoulders, pushing the fabric of his shirt aside, and then heat radiated from her hands over his neck and chest. His knees felt weak as the warmth of her touch traveled southward. Moaning, Wulfric reached for the lacing holding her breastband in place, removing the piece. Wynne sighed in relief as his fingers massaged the marks left by the garment. Holding up an endowment such as hers clearly put some strain on the fabric. 

Wulfric stepped back, his eyes dropping to study her breasts, heavy and full. Without the support of her breastband, they sagged some, but they were still shapely. As he watched, Wynne slid her last remaining garment down her legs, stepping out of the smallclothes and then stretching out on her bedroll. “I am not getting any younger,” she said with a hint of humor. “Are you going to touch, or just look?”

“Never let it be said that I kept a lady waiting,” he said with a grin. Quickly he stripped off his own clothing, lying down at Wynne’s side. 

She pressed against him, sighing, and Wulfric let his fingers trail down her side and across her thigh to caress the back of one knee. He bent his head, moving his lips across her shoulder toward her ear. Wynne drew her leg up as Wulfric’s fingers caressed the soft skin of her inner thigh. Her magic fingers danced over the sensitive back of his neck and down his chest with ice and fire and lightning alternating in her touch. The contrasting sensations and the magic in the air were a heady combination. 

Wulfric’s fingers traced the edge of the white curls between Wynne’s legs, moving up over her stomach. She stiffened as his fingertips moved across her breasts, brushing the nipples ever so lightly. He continued the soft, teasing touches across her breasts as Wynne shifted restlessly, biting her lip and rubbing her legs together, her hands moving over his back in brief flashes of magic.

Finally he decided he’d tortured her enough. He shifted, taking one of her thighs in each hand and spreading her legs so he could kneel between them. Then he leaned forward, taking a nipple in his mouth and plunging a hand between her legs, finding the wetness there and exploring her folds. Wynne let out a cry of surprised pleasure and Wulfric grinned to himself. It wasn’t his name, and it wasn’t quite loud enough to wake the camp. Yet.

He suckled her nipples, rolling them around his tongue and nipping lightly with his teeth, and his hand continued to play between her legs, circling but completely avoiding the center of her pleasure. 

Wynne’s hands fell to her side, her focus narrowing to the sensations taking over her body, as she gasped and panted, squirming to move his fingers where she most wanted to be touched. 

With one finger, he found her entrance, sliding just the fingertip inside. Wynne made a strangled noise, arching up to encourage his finger to move deeper. He shifted again, stretching out, and he thrust two fingers deep inside her at the same time as his mouth found the little nub and sucked hard.

“Yes!” Wynne shouted. “Warden, yes!”

Getting there.

He worked her slowly, building the tension within her body until he could feel the tightening of approaching climax, and then he withdrew. 

Wynne’s eyes flew open and she glared at him. “Do not toy with me, young man.”

Licking his fingers, Wulfric raised an eyebrow at her. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He lifted her legs, fitting himself between them, and slowly circled her entrance with just the tip of his erection.

“Yes, now,” Wynne cried, raising her hips and pushing against him.

“Wulfric,” he whispered, slipping just the head inside and pulling out again. “Say my name.”

“Wulfric,” Wynne moaned, and he rewarded her with a full thrust. Wynne cried out, her head arching back, as he seated himself fully, circling his hips against her.

He pulled out. “Say it again.”

“Wulfric!”

He thrust as she was speaking, and the end of the word shot up in a screech. His arms were trembling as he held himself braced above her, sliding in and out—hard thrusts in and slow withdrawals, encouraging her to call his name again and again. Wynne was panting, squirming against him, and he could feel the tension in her body increasing as she neared her peak. Even though his was approaching as well, he wanted to see her explode. He slowed even further, changing the angle for Wynne’s pleasure, watching her face.

At last, he saw the flush of passion rising into her face, saw her mouth opening, and he sped up, his movements firm and forceful and smooth. Wynne’s back arched higher and higher, her eyes closed tightly, and he felt her clench around him. “WULFRIC!”

That did it. No one could have slept through that scream, and the satisfaction sent him over the edge.

As his body cooled, he shifted to lay at her side. It didn’t take long for the passionate woman in the throes of climax to recede and be replaced by the quiet schoolmarm. Wynne opened her eyes and smiled at him. “I had not expected to end my day like this.”

“Nor had I.” Or at least, not with her. Part of him worried that Morrigan would be upset … and the other part of him recognized the worry as a danger sign. Morrigan was many things, but relationship fodder had never been among them. This interlude was probably a good idea just on that basis. “Do you regret it?” He propped himself up on an elbow, genuinely curious.

“Not in the least. It is … good to be reminded that every action does not have to be aimed at stopping the Blight.”

“Now I hope you’ll realize I can pursue pleasure and still remain focused on the task at hand.”

“I promise, no more lectures.” Wynne smiled at him, her eyes twinkling. “At least, not regarding your intimate activities. I reserve the right to lecture on other topics.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”


	7. Leliana

Wulfric stepped out of the stream, giving himself a cursory toweling off before reaching for his breeches. He had just finished pulling them on when he heard a rustling in the underbrush and Leliana appeared, towel and brush in hand.

“Oh!” Her fair skin flushed as she took in the sight of him. He was surprised to see her eyes traveling hungrily over his body—she’d never expressed any interest in him before—but then, she’d never seen him dripping wet and half-dressed before that he could remember, either. Water still rolled over his chest, and his breeches clung damply to his hips and legs, leaving little to the imagination; even less as his body began to respond to her obvious interest. 

“The water’s very refreshing.” He grinned at her, shaking his shaggy hair back out of his eyes.

“I can see that.” Leliana licked her lower lip, her eyes following a water droplet that was moving slowly over Wulfric’s bare chest.

He felt a thrum of excitement move through him, and he stepped closer to her. He’d always thought Leliana might require rather more wooing than he was willing to invest in one woman. It was rather delightful to think that her devout exterior could conceal passionate lust, and made her an even more delectable treat to contemplate unwrapping. 

“Warden …” she whispered.

“Wulfric,” he corrected, gently taking the towel and brush out of her hands.

“You would seem to have your hands full already,” Leliana said, but she didn’t move. Wulfric put the towel and brush down on the grass.

“Not full now.”

“Oh, no, I meant … Morrigan …” she said, her voice becoming fainter as Wulfric began unbuttoning the simple tunic she wore.

“Ah.” He didn’t pause in his unbuttoning, trying not to think about it. The current coolness between Morrigan and himself had been mutually determined—neither of them wanted a relationship right now, certainly didn’t have the time to muck about with feelings, and it had seemed prudent to stop what they were doing. That he missed Morrigan, that he thought about her too much, that he suspected he might actually care for her were things he tried not to think about. “No, we were not … a good idea, as it turned out.” He pushed the tunic off Leliana’s shoulders, holding her eyes with his.

“I cannot say I am sorry.”

“Aren’t you?” His big hands closed on Leliana’s shoulders, gently moving down her arms—muscular and strong, but still soft to the touch.

“No.”

“Don’t you like to share?” It was a more serious question than his casual tone would suggest. He had no intention of getting tied into an exclusive relationship with her—if he wouldn’t have done it for Morrigan, he wouldn’t do it for anyone. His hands skimmed over her belly, and Leliana caught her breath, but she didn’t try to stop him as his fingers found the ties on her pants.

“I … do not mind sharing,” she whispered breathlessly, clinging to him as the pants fell around her feet. “Just … not with her.”

“Hm.” It wasn’t a surprise. There was little love lost between the two women. And it occurred to him that perhaps this interlude in the woods wasn’t as accidental as it might appear. Leliana might have waited until she knew he and Morrigan were no longer sleeping together and engineered this seemingly happenstance encounter. Far from being upset, he found her the more interesting for the imagined deception.

His thoughts were cut off when Leliana leaned forward, licking water droplets off his chest and stomach. Her tongue followed the paths of the water, and Wulfric gasped at the unexpectedness. He threaded his fingers into her red hair, holding her mouth in place as she placed her full lips on his nipple, just the faintest scrape of teeth heightening the sensation. Groaning, he tilted her head back so he could take his first taste of those lips.

Leliana accepted his kiss eagerly, her hands gripping his shoulders as her tongue met his. Her body pushed against him, and Wulfric’s hands moved over her back to cup her rounded buttocks, kneading the soft flesh. Leliana gave a high-pitched little noise of pleasure, twisting her hips. Her hands found the waistband of his breeches, sliding inside the dampened fabric and between their bodies, clever fingers circling his length and running over the sensitive tip. 

Wulfric growled, letting go of her to push his offending clothing hastily off his hips, kicking his legs to get free of the garment. Leliana unfastened her breastband, her ripe heavy breasts spilling out, and shimmied out of her brief scrap of smallclothes. 

The sight of her, lush and nude, enflamed Wulfric, and he lunged at her, lifting her in his arms. She wriggled, the damp heat between her legs sliding against his erection, as her mouth found his in a demanding kiss. He pressed her against the smooth trunk of a beech tree, anchoring her with his body as his mouth hungrily sought her nipples. He took each one in his mouth in turn, biting and sucking with frenzied enthusiasm. Leliana moaned, leaning her head against the tree while she pushed against him, leaving little doubt as to what she wanted. Wulfric held her in place with one hand while he guided himself into her with the other, thrusting up into her. 

“Oh, my Wulfric,” she panted. “Yes, my Warden, yes!” Her mouth was open, her eyes closed, her hair falling in her face as she thrust against him, using the tree as leverage. “Right there—Maker, there!”

He could feel her tighten, the muscles inside her rippling around him, and he slowed slightly to let her catch her breath.

“More,” she whispered. “Don’t stop.” Her legs locked around his waist, her mouth sought his, her body gyrated against him in undiminished passion, and Wulfric was happy to do as she asked. He continued thrusting, finding her moans and whimpers incredibly arousing. He liked women who weren’t afraid to enjoy themselves, and Leliana made enough noise as she climbed the peak to satisfy any man. 

Her legs gripped his waist harder, creating more tension between their bodies, and Wulfric found himself slamming against her, straining to reach his release. She shrieked her pleasure the second time, and his followed, his legs turning to rubber as he spasmed. 

Wulfric leaned against her, panting, pinning her between himself and the tree so as not to drop her. Leliana stroked his hair and his back, murmuring small endearments. With his head buried in Leliana’s shoulder, Wulfric didn’t see the raven that flew out of a nearby tree. But Leliana did, and a smile curved her lips as she rested her cheek against his damp black hair.


	8. Isabela ... et al.

Wulfric lifted the mug, savoring the rich, hearty ale. The dockside tavern looked like a dive, but he remembered being brought here by his father and Fergus, who had considered its food and ale among the best in Denerim. Today, it had the added advantage of being a place where he could share his birthday with his family, at least in his memories. It was nice to have a quiet drink on his own, as well. As much as he appreciated his companions, sometimes the squabbling was just too much.

“Hello, sailor.” The throaty voice cut into his thoughts, and Wulfric turned to politely rebuff the woman’s overture. He found himself facing the rounded depths of some very fine cleavage, and immediately thought better of the impulse. Looking up from the tanned swell of flesh, he met a pair of amber eyes that glinted at him humorously. Whoever this woman was, she had no illusions as to her attractions.

“What makes you think I’m a sailor?” 

“Perhaps I say that to all the boys.” She leaned against the bar next to him, pressing the curve of her bosom against his arm.

“Does that line work for you often?”

“Sweet thing, any line works for me.” She held out a strong, browned hand. “Captain Isabela of the _Siren’s Call_.”

“I’ve heard of you,” he said, surprised. “Sanga told me about you.”

“Ooh, Sanga says the nicest things.” She wriggled against him, the skirt of her sailcloth tunic riding up to expose a very shapely thigh. 

Isabela smelled wildly exotic—of coconut and salty ocean breezes. “What makes you think she said nice things?” Wulfric asked, nuzzling her hair.

“Of course she did,” Isabela said, leaning into him. “I’m a very good customer.”

“You need to pay?” Somehow he doubted it.

“Only when I’m bored.”

They were murmuring to each other now, their lips brushing with each question and answer. “And are you bored now?” he asked.

“Well, it was a slow day, but it seems to be picking up.” She nipped his lower lip, pulling it out and releasing it, then running her tongue over the redness left by the bite.

“Yo, Isabela, none o’ that ‘ere!” The barkeep frowned at her good-naturedly.

Isabela grinned at him. “Sorry, Mike. We’ll take it outside.” She ran her hand over Wulfric’s lap as she said “take it out”, leaving no doubt as to her intentions. “My boat’s only a few steps away,” she said.

It crossed Wulfric’s mind to wonder if he was being set up—a come-on this strong and determined could easily be a trick. His eyes followed Isabela’s swaying rear, each step nearly, but not quite, revealing what lay under her short tunic. Maker take it, if this was a trick, someone had paid very well for the props. Might as well take advantage of what was on offer. He got off the stool, gulping down the last swallows of ale and leaving a few coins on the counter in payment, and followed the woman out of the room. 

On the docks, he reached for her, grabbing her by the waist and shoving her against the wall. His mouth crashed down on hers. Isabela’s arms curved around his neck, one leg wrapping around his hip as her pelvis undulated against him. Her tongue dueled with his for dominance, and Wulfric let her win, accepting her weight as she practically climbed him in order to get a better angle for the kiss. 

Isabela’s fingers wove through his shaggy black hair, tilting his head farther back. He gripped the thigh that was wrapped around his waist, massaging the firm muscle.

With a little growl, Isabela broke the kiss. “This is going to be fun. I love fun.” She climbed off of him, expertly disentangling herself from his reaching fingers. Wulfric followed as she led her way across the docks, which were fairly quiet in the early evening. Her ship was large and shapely, the figurehead a beautiful woman. The figurehead was far less enticing than the curvaceous form ahead of him. Clearly, Isabela was the true siren aboard the _Siren’s Call_. 

Her crew paid them no attention at all, going about their business as though their captain wasn’t half-naked and leading a strange man to her cabin. Wulfric supposed this must be a common occurrence aboard this ship, and he wondered if perhaps when the Blight was over he should turn to piracy. It looked like his kind of career.

Isabela flung open the door to her cabin. Wulfric was tall enough that he’d had to stoop a little in the passageway, and he had to bend over even more to get through the doorway. Straightening up, he surveyed the room. He wasn’t sure what was more surprising—the opulence and luxury of the décor, or the lithe and supple body of the elf tied spread-eagled to the bed with silk scarves.

“At last you arrive, my Warden. I confess, I was growing weary of lying here with no one to do.”

“Zev? What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you, of course.”

“Zevran and I are old friends,” Isabela said from the doorway. “He killed my husband, a job for which he was richly rewarded.”

“It was one of my more enjoyable assignments.” Zev smirked, his eyes twinkling. “My dear Wulfric, are you going to stand there, or are you going to come over here and explore your gift?”

“My gift?” Wulfric felt as though he had stepped into someone else’s dream. Not that he was complaining—there were far worse ways to spend a birthday than sandwiched between a highly skilled elf and an extremely sexy sea captain—but he wasn’t sure how this scenario was supposed to play out. He also spared a thought for Leliana. He’d made no promises of exclusivity, but he knew the bard would prefer not to be left out of something like this. He didn’t love Leliana in the way she seemed to want him to, but he also didn’t want to hurt her, or to turn the camp into a screaming match. “Um …” 

Could he really turn this down? Maker, one woman simply wasn’t worth giving up something like this!

“Maybe the Warden thinks there’s something missing, Zevran. Something like … another woman?” Isabela stepped into the room behind Wulfric. She closed the door, revealing a grinning—and half-naked—Leliana standing behind it.

“Happy birthday, my Warden!” Leliana threw herself into his arms, and he felt the soft roundness of her body against him, clad only in smallclothes and a flimsy piece of lace covering her breasts.

“How did you know it was my birthday?”

“You know that I trained as a bard. It is part of that training to notice small details and draw the correct conclusions. Do you like your gift?”

Wulfric grinned. “I haven’t really had the chance to open it all yet. Can I tell you later?”

“That assumes you’ll still be able to talk.” Isabela leaned back against the wall, holding up one booted foot and placing it squarely in the center of Wulfric’s chest. “You and I, mate, are overdressed for this party. Give a girl a hand, will you?”

Slowly he moved his hand over the supple leather of her boot and the even more supple skin of her inner thigh, finding the edge of her skimpy smallclothes and slipping his finger underneath.

Isabela grinned, slapping his hand away. “With my boot. Don’t get greedy.”

“Patience has never been my strong point,” he replied, turning his attention to the buckles on her boot. When he had the first one off, she switched legs and he helped her with the other one. During Wulfric’s preoccupation, Leliana was busy removing most of his clothes, leaving him in just his shirt once Isabela was barefoot.

Wulfric ripped the shirt off over his head and dropped it on the floor, watching Isabela as she carefully, slowly, unlaced the front of her tunic, letting the plump mounds of her breasts spill out of the opening. He caught himself licking his lips.

“My Warden,” came Zev’s voice from the bed, “must you stand in front of the view? Not that your backside is not charming, but I would prefer both, yes?”

“Sorry, Zev,” Wulfric said. He backed up to sit on the edge of the bed. His hand closed around Zev’s already-erect manhood, stroking slowly, in time with Isabela’s drawn-out striptease. “Better?”

“Much.” 

As Wulfric fondled Zev and watched Isabela, Leliana knelt between his legs, taking him into her mouth. Wulfric groaned and thrust upward, feeling her throat open to take him deeply.

“Not fair to get started without me,” Isabela said, pouting. She dropped the tiny piece of fabric that covered the last of her charms and her tanned body moved across the room. Wulfric felt her weight on the bed behind him, and then the fullness of her breasts was pressed against his back as her hot mouth found his ear.

Wulfric gently moved Leliana’s mouth off him, hissing as the air moved over his wet skin. He turned, claiming Isabela’s mouth with his own. With pleasure, he noticed Leliana climbing onto the bed, bending down to work her mouth’s magic on Zev, placing herself so the assassin could use his own considerable oral skills on her.

Isabela and Wulfric knelt facing each other, their bodies rubbing together as they kissed. His hands cupped her firm backside, kneading the flesh. Hers gripped his shoulders, the short nails making indentations in his skin. She shifted closer so that his length was trapped between her thighs, just inches from her wet heat. With practiced ease on both sides, they shifted slowly until she was poised over him, her body weight supported by his trembling arms. She wrapped her legs around his waist, lowering herself slowly.

She was hot and tight as she closed around him, and Wulfric drew in his breath. He sank back on his haunches, letting Isabela ride at her own pace. 

“Oh, YES!” she shouted, tilting back to gain greater friction. “Warden …”

“Wulfric,” he whispered hoarsely, watching the pirate’s face. She wasn’t one to hold her ecstasy inside. The muffled moans and sighs of Zev and Leliana added to the mood. Wulfric held onto the bedpost with one hand, the other gripping Isabela’s hip. Her movements sped up, her cries increasing in volume and urgency. As she spasmed around him, her shouts filled the room and her face showed every tremor of reaction.

Isabela moved off him, and he clenched his teeth at the loss of her warmth. His hand moved absently between his legs, pumping himself, as Isabela joined Leliana in attending to Zevran. 

Glad that Isabela had such a capacious bed—and fairly sure this was the reason she did—Wulfric reached for Leliana, pulling her toward him. He gave the bard a passionate kiss, hoping to communicate his appreciation for such a thoughtful celebration. Isabela bent to kiss Zev, running her hands over the elf’s body. 

“Let me taste you,” Zev said. Isabela didn’t wait to be asked twice, swinging her hips around so that she could straddle Zev’s face. 

Wulfric let Leliana go, guiding her to her hands and knees. He grasped Leliana’s hips with his hands, holding her still while he found her moist center, sliding easily inside her. She bent to take Zev’s length into her mouth again, moving in time with Wulfric’s thrusts. The moans and whimpers of Leliana’s growing excitement were clearly affecting Zev, who began moving urgently beneath her. The wet sounds of Zev’s tongue between Isabela’s legs grew louder. The four of them fed off each other’s energy, the volume in the room rising as they all vocalized their rising pleasure. At last Isabela began to shout her fulfillment, followed by Zev and Leliana. His companions’ ecstasy was infectious, and Wulfric felt the rush of his own climax overtaking him.

As they lay together, panting, it occurred to Wulfric to wonder if Isabela’s crew was used to such noises, and if any of them were ever envious of their captain’s prowess.

After a few moments, Zev began to stir underneath the pile of bodies. “Would one of you lovely people care to untie me? I would like to be able to use my hands for the next round.”

“Can’t complain about that,” Wulfric said, beginning on the knots of the scarf nearest to him. Isabela and Leliana went to work on the others, and in a few moments Zev was sitting up, flexing his arms and legs and rubbing his wrists.

“My pirate, your skill with restraints has increased since last we dallied.”

“Practice does make perfect,” Isabela said.

Wulfric dove into the empty spot left when Zev sat up. “Since it’s my birthday …” 

Isabela stretched out next to him. “Are you feeling neglected, lover?”

“We would not want that, would we?” Leliana smiled at him, kneeling between his legs and drawing the tips of her soft breasts over his awakening erection.

“By all means, my Warden, allow us to fulfill your wildest dreams,” Zev said, moving his body across Wulfric’s with an almost balletic grace. He pressed himself against Wulfric’s other side.

Closing his eyes, Wulfric gave himself up to the sensations. All three of his current lovers were exceptionally skilled, and all were using hands and mouths and breasts (or lean, muscled pecs, in Zev’s case) to caress and tease. He could do little beneath them but writhe, trying to press his body against all of them at once. One grasping hand found itself firmly wrapped around Zev’s length, and the other eventually moved over Isabela’s firm bosom and soft stomach to the warmth between her legs. Leliana, meanwhile, had climbed atop him, and her voice soared over all their murmurings, crying out in Orlesian as she moved on him.

Each of them kissed him in turn. Zev’s kisses held obvious expertise; Wulfric could almost taste the pride the assassin took in his skills. Isabela’s kisses were duels, struggles for dominance in which each of them exulted in coming out the victor. Leliana’s kisses were soft and wet and enveloping, as though each touch of her lips further claimed him for her own. Wulfric shook off the sense of disquiet this gave him and focused instead on the pleasure that surrounded him. Maker, he wished he were triply endowed so he could take them all at once! 

His excitement increased until he couldn’t lie still under it any longer. He disentangled himself from all his lovers, caressing and kissing them in apology as they made noises of disapproval.

Wulfric pressed Isabela back against the pillows, taking one of her nipples into his mouth as his hand moved between her legs. He could hear the moans and sighs of Zev and Leliana fondling each other behind him. Reaching for Leliana’s hand, he pulled her toward the bed. He took her in his arms, his hands running over the curves of her body, fingers sliding with practiced ease over the core of her. He guided her gently toward Isabela. Moans were drawn from both men’s throats as Leliana began lapping at Isabela’s juices. He embraced Zev, pulling the elf up on his tiptoes to kiss him passionately. Leliana had her fingers between her own legs, moving them in time to the movement of her mouth on Isabela. Wulfric brushed her hand aside as he moved Zev into position, the assassin and the bard both gasping as he entered her. Wulfric reached for the bottle of scented oil, smelling of oranges and exotic spices, that sat next to Isabela’s bed. 

Slicking his fingers with the oil, he gently probed Zev’s opening, readying the assassin. Mounting the bed, he slid himself slowly inside Zev, feeling the reaction move from body to body as he surged and withdrew. Being in control of all their movements was a heady intoxication all its own, and Wulfric milked it, moving exquisitely slowly to prolong the anticipation for all of them. 

Leliana was the first to surrender, resting her head on Isabela’s thigh as she wailed with the intensity of her release. Her fingers replaced her mouth on Isabela’s body, the pirate captain moving with more and more urgency until she, too cried out, her hips bucking off the mattress.

Wulfric grasped the bedposts, thrusting vigorously against Zev as the Antivan moaned, his body clenching around Wulfric’s length as the spasms overtook him. At last, Wulfric felt the gathering tightness, closing his eyes to let the sensations wash over him.

The four of them lay in the bed in a tangle of sweaty arms and legs, gathering their breath. But before long they were all up, using the towels and jugs of water Isabela had thoughtfully set out to clean themselves up, finding their discarded clothing. 

Jokes and quips flew thick and fast—all of them were quick on their feet and expert at deflecting questions and any hint of seriousness with humor. Wulfric and Zev and Leliana kissed Isabela good-bye, exchanging hopes of future pleasures. 

Zev lingered behind Leliana and Wulfric, chatting with the pirate for a few more moments. Leliana clung to Wulfric’s arm as they navigated the uneven wood of the docks in the darkness. “Was your gift to your taste, my Warden?”

“It was, indeed,” he said, patting her hand. She rarely used his name, preferring ‘my Warden’, and he had stopped trying to change her mind. “I believe it was the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given me.” He prayed she wouldn’t ask about other gifts he’d received in his life—he didn’t want to think about his parents and the fuss they made over birthdays. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

“I shall begin thinking about next year’s gift immediately,” she said, smiling happily, her white teeth shining in the darkness. 

Next year? Wulfric thought there was a good chance none of them would see next year … and if he did, would it still be Leliana at his side? He very much doubted it. But there was no point spoiling a perfect encounter. He put his arm around Leliana’s waist, squeezing affectionately, and kept his thoughts to himself.


	9. Alistair/Cauthrien in Fort Drakon

Wulfric’s eyes opened, scanning his field of vision. Grey. Stone. Alistair in his smallclothes. More stone. Wait, what? He blinked, but the chiseled, muscular body of his fellow Grey Warden failed to disappear from his view. If he was in the Fade, it wasn’t such a bad place to be.

“Oh, you’re awake!” Alistair’s voice was heavy with relief. “I was afraid—“

Not the Fade, then. Too bad. “No, it takes more than a woman and a room full of archers to kill me,” Wulfric said. He pushed himself up off the floor, noticing that he, too, was in his smallclothes. It really was too bad this wasn’t a dream. “Where are we?”

“Fort Drakon. Very scenic, don’t you think?” Alistair’s mouth quirked up in a grin.

Wulfric looked through the bars of their cell at the dimly lit dungeon. “Beautiful. How’s the food?”

“Haven’t had any, so I suppose I can’t complain about it.” 

“I’m surprised I don’t feel like a house crashed on me. What was that, anyway?”

“Ser Cauthrien’s sword.”

“Ah, yes. Cauthrien. There’s nothing like a mindless zealot to ruin the day,” Wulfric said. Alistair’s gaze moved anxiously over Wulfric’s shoulder. “She’s standing there, isn’t she?”

Alistair nodded, and Wulfric turned around, looking into the scowling, but still beautiful, face of Loghain’s lieutenant.

“Come down to finish the job?” Wulfric asked. “I’m surprised you left us alive in the first place. Sloppy.”

“I had my orders,” Cauthrien said, looking down her nose at him, as usual. 

“Of course you did. You wouldn’t sneeze without permission from the great General Loghain, would you?” Wulfric walked across the cell, gripping the bars. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that the Queen escaped that battle with her life.”

“The Queen?”

Wulfric tipped his head back and laughed, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “That’s priceless! You didn’t know? Cauthrien didn’t know, Cauthrien didn’t know!” He singsonged the words like a small child. “Seems to me I recall Fergus warning you about blindly following someone else’s orders all the time.”

“And I recall your brother telling you to be more careful,” Cauthrien snapped.

“I take it you two know each other,” Alistair said.

Without looking away from Cauthrien’s face, Wulfric nodded. “Ser Cauthrien accompanied General Loghain on several visits to my family’s home. Tell me, Cauthrien, how did the great General feel when he heard his good friend Rendon Howe had slaughtered my family?”

“Your father was making secret deals with Orlais, Wulfric. Rendon’s methods were … horrible, but the action was justified.”

“JUSTIFIED?” Wulfric howled, his hands gripping the bars so hard his knuckles were white. He calmed himself only with a great effort. “Even if it were true, which it isn’t, how was the rape and murder of my sister-in-law and the beheading of my six-year-old nephew justified? If Loghain thought so, he isn’t the man I used to know.” Cauthrien bit her lip. “He isn’t, is he? Something’s changed about everyone’s favorite hero. What is it, Cauthrien?” 

“I—I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I owe him too much to betray him. Surely you understand, Wulfric?”

“I understand that you’ve locked me up because you’re afraid to be disloyal to a madman.”

Cauthrien’s face hardened. “It is necessary.”

“Come in here and tell me that to my face!” Wulfric shouted at her. His outrage was fading, and his brain was working rapidly at the conundrum of how to get out. The bars were too strong to break through; Cauthrien was clearly here to be certain he and Alistair didn’t get away; and how far could they get in their smallclothes, anyway? But there was one thing Wulfric could do in his smallclothes to neutralize his jailor, and by the Maker, he would. “Or are you afraid to face me?”

That stung her, as he had been sure it would. “I am afraid of nothing,” she said, throwing her head back proudly.

“Fine words with bars between us.”

“Do you think I’m that foolish?”

“I think you’re armed and armored, and I’m unarmed and practically naked.” He turned around slowly, to let her see everything.

“There are two of you, and what good will it do?” Her eyes clung to his body, despite her protests.

“You were my brother’s friend, Cauthrien. You and he sparred together. You ate at my parents’ table. Now they lie in ashes because of the things your lord has let happen, and you haven’t even the courage to stand in front of me and tell me why it was ‘necessary’?” He threw up a hand, turning away from her. “Begone, then.”

His eyes met Alistair’s, the other man standing back and watching. Wulfric hoped Alistair would get his wordless message to stay out of things.

“Do you understand that you want me to speak treason?”

He whipped around, glaring at her. “It’s treason now to explain why an innocent family was slaughtered? Besides, who’s to hear you?”

“No one … but …”

“Loghain’s not the man he used to be, you know that, Cauthrien. Come in here and tell me what’s going on. You owe me that much, to speak to me as old friends, with no bars between us.”

Her head hung for a moment, and then she nodded. “You are right. I owe you … and your family … that much.” She unlocked the cell, closing the door carefully behind her and locking it again.

Wulfric took a long step closer to her. “What’s wrong with Loghain, Cauthrien?”

Her face twisted as loyalty to Loghain conflicted with what her heart and mind told her. “I … I cannot betray my lord. I’m sorry.” She began to turn, and Wulfric caught her arm.

“Cauthrien, wait. I don’t think you understand. You haven’t been out there the way I have. Whatever his reasons, whatever he did, the country is suffering for it.”

“He doesn’t believe it’s as bad as people say.”

“I’m sure the view from the throne is nice. Cauthrien, whatever happens to me, you have to convince him this is a Blight! You have to talk some sense into him, make him see that working with us is the only way Ferelden will survive.” He put his other hand on her other arm, holding her still as he looked into her eyes. “Will you do that?”

“I will try. I can promise no more. But you know he will not listen.” Her head bowed.

“Can—Can I ask for a boon?” Wulfric felt a little guilty for the deception of fear and acquiescence he was practicing on her, but not guilty enough to let this opportunity for escape get away from him. Even more to the point, he had fantasized about Cauthrien for many a night, and he meant to have her now. “It seems likely that I’ll be executed as a traitor.”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

Well, then. It wasn’t a surprise, but it did make him want to move this along a little faster. “I don’t want to die without having tasted your kiss.” 

Cauthrien’s eyes flew open again, searching his face. “Don’t be foolish.”

“I’m not being foolish. I used to watch you, you know, when you sparred with Fergus.”

She flushed, and Wulfric was careful not to let his amusement show on his face. The young Cauthrien had been putty in Fergus’s hands—Wulfric’s education in these matters had begun on those afternoons long ago, watching Fergus and Cauthrien spar in what they thought was a secluded meadow, watching them shed their armor and their inhibitions.

“One kiss?” he whispered, bending down toward her. 

“Very well,” she said, striving for a tart tone and missing. She turned her mouth up to Wulfric’s, the kiss warm and sweet. He let his tongue touch her lips softly, his hand caressing the back of her neck. When he tried to deepen the kiss, she pulled away. “You said one kiss.”

“That would be like offering a starving man a single bite when a banquet lay before him,” Wulfric whispered. “Cauthrien …” He kissed her again, feeling the parting of her lips and the tentative touch of her tongue. He swept her into his arms, pressing her against him, armor and all. “Let me feel you. Please.” He prayed Alistair would keep his mouth shut. His fellow Warden wasn’t as shy and untutored about these things as he had been before their visit to the Pearl, but it was hard to tell if the innocent Chantry orphan would overpower the man. He couldn’t even look in Alistair’s direction, for fear of reminding Cauthrien where they were.

“This is not sensible.” But her voice trembled as she said it. 

“When is passion ever sensible? Let me go to my death sated, if I must.”

Her fingers worked the buckles and fasteners of her armor as if in a dream. Was she remembering Fergus? It amused Wulfric to wonder how he compared to his brother. He’d always had the advantage over Fergus in height and looks, but Fergus was far more charming. 

He reached for Cauthrien, assisting her in removing the last pieces of her armor, laying it carefully aside and noting which piece jingled with the ring of keys. And then even the need for escape was subsumed in the feel of Cauthrien’s long, lean body against his. He might be using her for escape, but he had no intention of leaving her unsatisfied. Besides, how often does a man get the chance to touch the body that first made him know what manhood was? 

She moved against him and he reached around, cupping the firm mounds of her rear and pulling her close. He rocked his body against hers, feeling her whimper as the hard ridge of his erection pressed against the softness between her legs, their smallclothes a barrier that just heightened the anticipation. Running his hands through her dark hair to free it from the restricting bun she wore, Wulfric bent to kiss her again, deep and hard, tasting the sweetness hidden there, like fine wine. He felt Cauthrien’s hands tighten in his long hair as she kissed him back with equal fervor. 

Slowly he ran a hand up the fine smooth skin of her back to the fastener of her breastband, flicking it casually open. The fabric fell at their feet, and Wulfric leaned Cauthrien back so he could dip his head and take a hardened nipple into his mouth. She whimpered as he suckled her, her eyes closed and her hands gripping his upper arms.

Wulfric kissed his way up over her collarbone to her neck. Over her shoulder, he caught sight of Alistair in the corner, glassy-eyed and stroking himself through his smallclothes. Although he knew Alistair wasn’t interested in men, his fellow Warden had been the subject of several fantasy-filled nights, as well, and the idea of fulfilling both fantasies at once struck Wulfric as deliciously wicked. A deep ache began in the pit of his stomach at the thought of touching them both at once, his breath coming faster. He spun Cauthrien in his arms, pulling her against him so that his length pressed against the curve of her buttocks. His hand slid between her legs, rubbing her through her smallclothes as she moaned, leaning her head against him. “Look at Alistair, Cauthrien.” 

Both of their eyes flew wide open, and they each stared at him in surprise. Wulfric didn’t let up in his attentions to Cauthrien, however, and he could feel the increasing dampness between her legs. “Look at him,” he said in her ear. Alistair, as he had expected, was no proof against the sight of Cauthrien’s passion, and Wulfric could see his fellow Warden throbbing in his rather restricting smallclothes. “What would it be like to have both of us, working at your pleasure? Who else is woman enough to tame us both?”

The warrior in his arms trembled, his voice stroking her femininity as surely as his hands. 

“Go to him,” Wulfric urged, and as if in a dream, Cauthrien did so, lifting her mouth for Alistair’s kiss. It was unbelievably erotic to watch them embrace, both bodies so toned and muscular, pressing against each other. Wulfric followed, rubbing himself against Cauthrien’s backside, his hands finding Alistair’s firm thighs and gripping them while his mouth dipped to the nape of Cauthrien’s neck. 

After several moments of this, Cauthrien began to wriggle between them, and it was soon apparent she was trying to divest herself of her smallclothes. Wulfric stepped back to allow her to do so, and Alistair moaned as her body was bared to him, wrestling with the fabric that bound him. Cauthrien’s deft hands reached for him, untangling the cloth and stroking him as Alistair cried out.

Seeing the flush of passion cross his fellow Warden’s face made Wulfric harden even further, and he took care of his own last piece of clothing. When he had tossed the smallclothes out of his way, he saw that Cauthrien was on her knees, Alistair’s length in her mouth. Alistair was red-faced and panting, bracing himself against the cell wall. Wulfric, with only a passing thought for the cleanliness of the cell floor, laid himself down on it with his face underneath Cauthrien, his tongue reaching out to trace the folds at her center. She trembled against him, quickening her movements on Alistair, and Wulfric’s inexperienced companion spent himself with a great shout of triumph.

Cauthrien wiped her mouth, moving back until the heat of her center found the heat of Wulfric’s erection.

“Yes,” Wulfric whispered. “Now.”

She raised up, lowering herself down onto him slowly. Alistair knelt behind her, straddling Wulfric’s legs, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air over Cauthrien’s body. The instinct was there, but Alistair’s lack of experience made him hesitant. 

“Touch her,” Wulfric groaned through clenched teeth. The feel of Cauthrien’s rhythmic rise and fall was everything he had dreamed it would be, her body taut and firm as she moved. Her enjoyment was obvious, but she wasn’t climbing the peak. Reaching out, Wulfric took Alistair’s warm, rough hand in his, guiding it to the center of Cauthrien’s pleasure, his fingers sliding with Alistair’s in the wetness there until they found a rhythm that had Cauthrien emitting high-pitched moans. That Alistair’s fingers occasionally glanced over his length only added to the heat of the moment, and Wulfric grasped Cauthrien’s hips, holding tight as she bucked on him in the throes of her passion. He pressed up into her, hard, and felt the tension release.

Cauthrien’s eyelids fluttered as she leaned back against Alistair. His arms went around her, cradling her against his shoulder, pressing small kisses onto her temple. The picture they made was an intriguing one. Yes, this interlude might well have possibilities beyond escape, Wulfric thought.

The idea of escape brought him back to the present. He collected his wits and got up, hunting for the key. 

“What? Wait, what are you doing?” Cauthrien tried to untangle herself from Alistair’s arms.

“Not getting hung. I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.” Key in hand, Wulfric went to the cell door.

“You used me!”

“Well … only sort of. I meant everything I said.”

Alistair held Cauthrien by the arms. “My lady,” he said, “come with us.”

Wulfric and Cauthrien both stared at him. “What?”

“Come with us. Fight the Blight with us,” Alistair repeated. “We need your blade against the Archdemon.”

“But … Teyrn Loghain …”

“Has entire armies at his disposal, and he’s fighting a civil war that distracts the country from what is truly important—ending the Blight. Don’t you see? We need you. Far more than he does.” Alistair looked at her imploringly, and Wulfric’s estimation of his friend went up several notches. 

“I … You truly need me?” Her eyes were locked on Alistair’s.

“I do.”

No more ‘we’, Wulfric noticed. He smothered his grin. Now it was his turn to stay quiet and watch.

“You were at Ostagar, Cauthrien, you know we didn’t do anything wrong,” Alistair continued. “We’re just trying to stop the Blight. Please!”

She nodded. “Very well. I will come with you. But I will be watching you—closely.”

Wulfric just bet she would. He cleared his throat. “Let’s go, then. We can … negotiate later.”


	10. Riordan

Wulfric knocked gently on the door. He and Alistair had left Riordan’s room a couple of hours ago, their heads filled with information about the Wardens they’d never had before. Now Alistair, bouquet of flowers in hand, had gone to seek out Cauthrien, and Wulfric wished to avoid both Leliana and Morrigan. To a lesser extent Zev, but he and the assassin had come to an agreement some time ago that while they enjoyed each other’s company, and each other’s body, nothing more than that lay between them. It made Zev a surprisingly restful companion. The elf was asleep now, however, recovering from wounds received this afternoon in the fight against his former Crow cell. 

All of which left Wulfric here in the hallway tapping at Riordan’s door, hoping his fellow Warden would be interested in sharing the very fine bottle of wine Wulfric had liberated from Arl Eamon’s cellars. If he remembered correctly, this wine had once been a gift from Wulfric’s father to the Arl, which practically made it Wulfric’s, anyway.

“Yes?” Riordan’s accented voice came through the door, and Wulfric smiled. Despite his claim to have been born and raised in Highever, Riordan sounded as foreign and exotic as any Orlesian. Members of the older generation, who remembered the occupation, recoiled at that accent, but Wulfric found it beguiling. Not as much so as Zev’s, perhaps, but it would be pleasant to listen to for an evening.

“Riordan? May I come in?”

“Enter, brother!”

Wulfric opened the door, thrusting his hand with the bottle in it around the edge before entering himself. “I brought libations. I thought we could talk. Strategize. Make … plans.” He swallowed hard at the sight of Riordan, shirtless and wearing low-slung cotton trousers that left nothing to the imagination. Plans, indeed. The only strategy in Wulfric’s head suddenly was the one that ended with him in bed with his fellow Warden.

Riordan grinned, his eyes twinkling. “A very fine idea. I confess, I do not sleep well. Less well now that the Blight is upon us and the Archdemon expresses such interest in us.” 

“He is generous with his attention, isn’t he?” Wulfric shut the door behind him. “I should have thought to bring glasses.”

“Didn’t you? No matter.” Riordan took the bottle, already uncorked, and lifted it to his lips, his mouth around the rim causing Wulfric’s mouth to go dry. “Very nice,” Riordan said. He licked his lips, catching a drop of wine that was about to roll down his chin.

Wulfric found himself licking his lips in response. He all but snatched the bottle from Riordan’s hand, swallowing the wine a little too fast.

“Please, sit,” Riordan said, motioning to the edge of the bed. “I regret that I have no chairs.”

“That’s hardly your fault,” Wulfric said, crossing the room and sitting down. He held out the bottle to Riordan, whose fingers grazed Wulfric’s as he accepted it. Something electric leaped between them, and Riordan’s eyes warmed.

“It seems a long time since I had a comfortable bed and congenial company,” he said, sitting down next to Wulfric and tilting the bottle up. “These past few nights here have been most restorative.”

“Your time in Howe’s dungeon must have been difficult to endure,” Wulfric said. His voice thickened on Howe’s name, his lip curling in disgust at the memory of that evil little bottom-feeder bleeding his life away on the stone floor. Gruesome as the death was, it was less than Howe’s perfidy and perversions had deserved.

“It was not what I would consider a vacation, no,” Riordan agreed. “But it could have been much worse. I came out of it with my health and sanity intact, and from what Wynne tells me, that cannot be said for all Howe’s victims.”

“No.” Wulfric thought of his friend Oswyn, tortured in Howe’s dungeons. Oswyn might never walk without a limp again, assuming he regained full use of his legs at all. 

“Enough talk of depressing things, my friend,” Riordan said, holding the bottle out to Wulfric. “We are here and alive, for now, and we must keep up our spirits and courage if we are to face the Archdemon.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Wulfric tipped the bottle up, drinking deeply. As he took it from his lips, his hand, unsteady with weariness and excitement, trembled, and rich red wine splashed onto his shirt. He handed the wine to Riordan, scrubbing futilely at the ruined fabric.

“Truly a shame,” Riordan said. “I suppose you must remove it now.” His eyes gleamed with wicked warmth, and Wulfric felt heat rise in him. He stripped off the shirt, noting with pleasure that Riordan’s eyes were glued to the play of muscles on his chest. “Better?” the older Warden asked.

“Much.” 

“It appears we are even,” Riordan said, gesturing to his own shirtless self. “Or perhaps I should pour wine on myself, as well.”

“It might be cold.” Wulfric could imagine the piquant liquid rolling down Riordan’s furred chest and over the well-defined muscles of his stomach.

“I believe I may take that risk.” Riordan’s mouth curled up in a grin. He took a long swallow of the wine, and then held the mouth of the bottle over his chest, the liquid just teasing the rim. Wulfric licked his lips, and Riordan let the bottle tilt that small degree farther, the wine spilling down his bare chest. Wulfric leaned forward, his tongue out to catch the rivulet of wine, licking it away as Riordan leaned back, a small hum of pleasure rising from him. 

As his mouth moved up over Riordan’s collarbone to the older man’s neck, Wulfric felt Riordan’s hands tangle in his shaggy dark hair, lifting his head for a kiss. His brother Warden’s mouth was tangy and wet from the wine, and Wulfric closed his eyes, losing himself in the sensations. He was aware of Riordan gently nudging him over until he lay on his back with Riordan leaning over him, their mouths still locked together. Wulfric’s hips rose from the mattress of their own volition, his pelvis rubbing against the stiffened bulge in Riordan’s trousers, the friction making him feel languid and weak. He tipped his head back as Riordan’s mouth moved, sharp teeth nipping at his throat, fingers pinching his nipples. 

“You are most eager, my friend.” Riordan’s breath was coming in audible pants as he whispered in Wulfric’s ear. “This is not your first time, I take it.” His fingers were drifting slowly down over Wulfric’s muscular stomach to draw small patterns over his erection through his pants.

Wulfric could barely think, much less speak. He moaned, pressing himself against the maddeningly light touch of those fingers. “Please.”

“Such desperation.” Riordan undulated his hips against Wulfric’s, and bent to kiss the younger Warden again. Arms wrapped around each other, they kissed with growing excitement. 

Riordan broke the kiss, his hands moving over Wulfric’s chest and his mouth nipping at Wulfric’s jaw just below the ear. Wulfric pressed his head back into the pillow, arching his neck and back into Riordan’s touch. The older man seemed to view him in the nature of a conquest to be won, and Wulfric had no objection to playing along and being seduced. He moaned as Riordan’s hands began on the buttons of his trousers, feeling some of the pressure ease as each button came loose.

“No smallclothes, eh?” Riordan murmured as Wulfric’s length sprang free. “Is that a Fereldan fashion, or merely the new custom among the young?”

Wulfric was completely incapable of answering as Riordan’s hand encircled him, stroking in a smooth rhythm. The older man bent, taking just the tip into his mouth, rolling his tongue around Wulfric’s flesh as Wulfric panted and groaned. 

And then Riordan removed his mouth, his hand, and his body, standing up next to the bed. Wulfric’s eyes opened and he murmured a protest.

“There is time yet,” Riordan said, smiling down at him. “And I, for one, wish to be rid of these constraining clothes.”

In response, Wulfric shoved his trousers down past his hips and kicked them off, watching them land on a table across the room. 

“I do enjoy your eagerness.” Riordan’s own sleep pants were left in a rumpled pile on the floor. Naked, he rejoined Wulfric on the bed. “To have been a Warden as long as I have is to have lost much of that impatience, that responsiveness.” He drew a single calloused finger along Wulfric’s length, watching avidly as Wulfric’s mouth opened and his eyes closed. 

When he could breathe again, once Riordan had removed his hand, Wulfric said, “Are you saying that the taint removes your ability to … feel?” He could barely imagine such a fate. If that were the case, he would be ready to go down into Orzammar long before thirty years was up.

“No, not to feel.” Riordan took Wulfric’s hand and placed it on himself. Wulfric closed his fist around the length of Riordan, pumping. “Mmm, you have done this before,” Riordan said appreciatively. “As you can … see, the sensation is there. It is … ah … simply not as immediate. Your responses are exquisite, my friend.” Riordan’s hand found Wulfric’s erection, and they stroked each other for long minutes, varying the pace and intensity and watching each other’s reactions. “I would like to … have you.” Riordan panted, pushing himself against Wulfric’s hand. “Unless you object?”

Wulfric couldn’t speak to answer, not with the tantalizing dance of Riordan’s fingers along his tip. He nodded vehemently instead.

“Who can resist such an invitation?” Riordan chuckled warmly in his ear. Gently he began to prepare Wulfric’s entrance, as Wulfric panted and sighed beneath him. This wasn’t his preferred position, but when someone as experienced and determined as Riordan was set on it, he was more than willing to go along. He rolled to his stomach, propping his knees beneath him, feeling Riordan readying him with tongue and fingers.

At last, when he was aching for it, Riordan mounted him, beginning a slow rhythm that built. His hand worked Wulfric’s length, the motion matching that of Riordan’s hips. It seemed to go on forever, the rhythm speeding and slowing, speeding and slowing, until Wulfric could think of nothing but achieving his climax.

Riordan’s hand tightened around him, the older Warden’s length grinding thrusting hard into Wulfric’s body, and Wulfric could hold himself back no longer. He let himself go, shaking, his seed spilling across the bedclothes. Riordan’s rhythm became jerky and uneven, his breath coming in harsh pants as he, too, finished.

They lay together quietly, not speaking, each lost in his own thoughts. It occurred to Wulfric to ask more questions about the end of the Archdemon and being a Grey Warden, but it didn’t quite seem the time. 

“Ah, thank you, my young friend. So close to the end, it is good to be reminded … why our sacrifice is necessary.” Riordan’s words were soft and sad, and Wulfric rolled to his side, caressing Riordan’s chest.

“I could remind you again,” he offered.

Riordan smiled, shaking his head. “The offer is appreciated, but I think not. I … would not find it amiss if you stayed,” he added in a hoarse whisper. “Sleep is even harder to come by than it once was, after my time in the dungeons. The only thing worse than the Calling is the idea that you may be prevented in carrying it out.”

Wulfric could easily imagine that. He shivered. “Of course I’ll stay,” he said. “I’ve had some training in the art of massage, if you think that might help you sleep.”

“Indeed. Thank you, my friend.”

Straddling Riordan’s back, Wulfric began the massage, continuing until he felt the slackening in Riordan’s muscles that indicated his fellow Warden was dropping off to sleep. Sliding onto the mattress, he stretched out against Riordan’s body, pulling the older man against him, glad that he could offer something as needed as a good night’s sleep.


	11. Anora

Even as he lifted his hand to knock on the Queen’s door, Wulfric wasn’t sure what he would say. That Alistair didn’t want the throne was known; that Anora did was even more firmly established. The choice seemed simple. But Wulfric wasn’t sure he trusted Anora—after all, she hadn’t done the country any good in the months since Cailan’s death. Could she really be trusted to lead Ferelden in the aftermath of a Blight? And there remained the issue of Loghain—Alistair would want the man dead, Anora would want him pardoned. Wulfric believed in the rule of law, but this was no time for a fair trial.

Nothing would be decided by standing here in the hallway with his arm raised. He knocked. “Your Majesty?”

The door opened instantly, as if she’d been waiting for him. “Grey Warden.”

Since he had met Anora numerous times before at official functions, he was well aware that she used the term deliberately, to put him in his place and to avoid acknowledging the legitimacy of any claims he might have. It kept her recognition of the crimes against his family as a bargaining tool. 

“May I enter?”

She stood back from the door, closing it firmly behind him. “I am glad you came. There is much we must discuss.” A calculating look flashed across her face. “I had thought to treat with your companion, Alistair, as the Theirin heir himself, but it appears he prefers to remain in the background.”

“He has been trained to do so.”

It was hard to tell from her expression how that thought affected whatever plans she might be contemplating. Would an untrained Alistair be a temptation, someone she could mold into another puppet king, or would he merely be an unpleasant reminder of Cailan?

“Please, sit.” She motioned to a settee, perching on the edge of a chair nearby. 

“Have you suffered any ill effects from your stay at Howe’s?”

“No. He would not have dared to harm the Queen. But thank you for asking.”

“What do you intend to do regarding his … actions?” Wulfric felt his body tensing with the effort of not ranting about Howe and what the man had done. “Justice must be served.”

Anora looked pensive. “He was a high-ranking nobleman; it would reflect poorly on our nation if he were to be publicly accused of … unpleasantness. At any rate, I will need to speak with my father for the final decision.”

Wulfric stood up, unable to remain seated on the delicate piece of furniture in the face of such cowardly pandering. Yelling at Anora now would get him nowhere, but his nephew’s blood cried out for justice and damn the consequences to the nation. As he walked to the window, struggling to bring himself under control, her last words struck him. “Your father has put himself on the throne as Regent. How do you feel about that?”

“He didn’t put himself there alone—it was a mutual agreement.”

“Between Loghain and Howe?”

“Between my father and myself.”

Wulfric craned his head around, looking at her over his shoulder. She sat composed and still on the edge of the chair, not a hair out of place. Was it possible that the perspicacity and talent for government Anora was credited with actually came from an over-reliance on her father? Had Loghain been the true power behind the throne all along? That painted the picture in quite another color.

“I see.” He turned around, leaning against the window frame with his arms crossed over his chest. “Have you given any thought to what you will do now?”

“By now, do you mean now that Cailan is dead, now that I’ve met you, or once the Blight has ended?” 

“Let’s go with the first two and not assume the third until it’s been accomplished.”

She nodded. “It had been my hope to rule alone. With my father’s invaluable advice to guide me, of course. Eamon has given me to understand that he would like to see Alistair on the throne, but I find it hard to believe that the Landsmeet would place an untrained puppy in the ruling seat, not when there is an experienced hand there already.”

“Possibly true,” Wulfric allowed. An idea was slowly taking shape in his mind, one that he had never considered before but seemed like a potential answer to many problems. “How much better if that experienced hand had a strong right arm to lean on.”

“You certainly cannot mean Alistair. Besides, I have my father, Ferelden’s foremost hero.”

“While your father no doubt has excellent advice, he isn’t getting any younger; the time will come when he must step down.” Anora nodded thoughtfully. “And no, I don’t mean Alistair. I mean, instead, the last surviving member of one of Ferelden’s oldest families and the rightful holder of Ferelden’s second teyrnir. In short, me.”

Anora’s mouth opened, but then she closed it, clearly considering the idea. 

Wulfric moved toward her, pressing his case. “You and I together would be a strong force for Ferelden. Don’t you agree?”

“The possibility does make a great deal of sense,” Anora conceded. “In light of such an alliance, Father might be willing to consider Rendon Howe’s reputation expendable, if it means a stronger Ferelden.”

Clearly, something would have to be done about Loghain’s influence. Wulfric wondered if a judicious application of his own special talents might hasten the process—he strongly suspected that Cailan had never tapped whatever wells of passion lay beneath the still surface Anora presented. As impressive as Cailan’s track record had been, Wulfric had bedded several women after the King had enjoyed them, and had come off favorably in all their estimation. An elven servant of Arl Wulff’s had referred to Cailan as a slobbering puppy, and it had not been a compliment.

“And you?” he asked in his most winsome tone, moving closer to her. “How would you feel about it?”

Anora appeared surprised at the question. “It’s very sensible, and a powerful balance to the Theirin claim. I would be in favor of it.”

He knelt next to her chair, taking one of her cool hands in his. “Politics is well and good, but marriage should be more than that.” He lifted one of her hands to his lips, placing a delicate kiss on her knuckles. “Would you be in favor of the more intimate aspects, as well?”

She pulled her hand away. “Certainly that must be a topic best reserved for once the decision has been made.”

“Come now, you wouldn’t want to enter into an agreement of this nature without knowing what you were letting yourself in for, would you? You’re entirely too cautious for that. What if I were incapable of performing my husbandly duties?”

“Are you?”

Wulfric grinned at her. “Try me and see.”

Anora drew her hand out of his grasp again. “I am not unfamiliar with your reputation,” she said stiffly. “It is much like Cailan’s.”

“I assure you, I am nothing like him. I have never yet made promises to anyone. When I do so, my word will be kept.” 

“And you think you are capable of such fidelity?” She stood up. “Regardless, I have no need to test your prowess.”

“What if I have need of testing yours?”

Anora’s jaw dropped. “How dare you!”

“Very easily. As you pointed out, I have experience. If I am to pledge myself to one woman, and have any hope of keeping that pledge, I have to expect a certain amount of enthusiasm, if not skill.”

“Are you saying you think I am not capable?” Her eyes were flashing, their depths beautiful and dark and angry, and Wulfric had to restrain a grin at how skillfully he had played on Anora’s contrary streak.

“Show me.”

“Here?”

“Why not? Trust me, no one would dream of disturbing us.” He didn’t move, waiting for her to decide.

Anora’s chin lifted, her pride snapping into place. Wulfric looked forward to breaking through that barrier. “Very well,” she said. “How would you like to begin?”

“I believe a good place to start might be removing our clothes.”

“Of course.” She reached behind her back for the lacings of her bodice, but was unable to reach them. “If you would?”

“My pleasure.” Wulfric moved behind her, his hands deftly finding the ends of the laces and untying them. She raised her arms so he could lift the bodice off over her head. He dropped it onto the nearest chair, his hands finding her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath the thin silk of her blouse. Slowly his hands moved up over her stomach until he was cupping the undersides of her breasts. Anora stood stiffly in his arms, as though his touch wasn’t affecting her, but Wulfric could hear the increase in her breathing, and as his palms brushed over her nipples, he felt them harden. Without moving from behind her, he began unbuttoning her blouse, his fingertips tracing circles on her skin as each undone button revealed more of it.

Anora shifted. “Grey Warden.”

“Wulfric,” he corrected gently, bending to nibble on the nape of her neck. Her skin was soft and fragrant, and he caught the slight turn of her head, offering more of her delicate neck for his attention. He put out his tongue, licking a trail up the side of her neck until he reached her ear. “How am I doing so far?” He had the blouse completely unbuttoned now and was massaging her breasts through her frilly lace breastband.

“Satisfactory,” she said, but her voice was breathless and he could feel her tremble.

“Is that all? Let’s see if we can’t improve on it.” 

Anora appeared to have forgotten that she was supposed to prove herself, and Wulfric, feeling her muscles go rigid as his hands stroked down over her stomach, realized that he had to proceed cautiously, drawing her passion out little by little. Cailan had apparently botched the job.

Wulfric licked the edge of her ear and then kissed his way down the side of her neck while his hands moved to her hips. He drew her back against his chest. “Relax.”

“I am perfectly relaxed,” she said, standing up straight to put distance between them.

“Of course,” he said, chuckling. Slowly he pushed the silk over her shoulders until the blouse drifted to the floor. Once her shoulders were bared to him he put his big hands on them, massaging the tense knots he found there.

“Mm.” Anora stretched her neck as the tension eased there. 

Wulfric pretended not to notice the noise, but he shifted closer to her, so that she could feel the heat of his body but they weren’t quite touching. His hands moved lower, over her shoulder blades, pausing to undo the clasp of her breastband, and continuing down to the sensitive spot at the small of her back. She caught her breath as he rubbed and stroked her lower back, his thumbs sweeping under the waistband of her skirt and across the very top curve of her buttocks. 

He rubbed his cheek along the top of her shoulder, the stubble rasping across her soft skin, and she shivered. Deftly he unhooked her skirt, letting it fall to the floor. Anora gasped, looking down at her nearly naked body in dismay. Wulfric held his hands still, allowing her to get used to the intimacy.

“Ward—Wulfric,” she said after a moment. “Is something amiss?”

“Not at all. Would you like me to continue?”

The tension was back in her body. “This was your idea,” she said tartly. “Would you like to continue?”

His hands gripped her hips, pulling her firmly against the evidence of his interest. “Does it feel like I want to continue?” he asked.

There was a moment’s pause while she tried to be subtle about her desire to pull away from him. “Yes.”

“Then I hope you don’t mind if I do so.” Without waiting for a response, Wulfric moved his hands back over her stomach, caressing the soft skin there before sliding down over her hipbones and upper thighs. His mouth moved to the back of her neck, nipping ever so lightly and then soothing the spot with his tongue. His fingers moved slowly, nudging her legs apart. Anora swallowed, trembling, but Wulfric was well aware that the reaction was trepidation more than desire. Holding her firmly, he let his fingers tease the inside of her thighs before gently stroking, once, across the fabric that covered her center. 

Anora’s indrawn breath and the dampness against his fingers told him he was winning the battle, if slowly. He smiled, kissing her neck again and stroking more firmly. He kept up the light caresses until he could feel a slight movement in her body as her hips swayed with his rhythm.

“Would you like me to touch you?” he whispered.

She was breathing heavily, and she nodded.

“Take your smallclothes off.”

Anora froze in his arms. And then her hands moved for the first time, pushing the fabric off her hips. 

His arm tightened around her, holding her up as his hand moved between her legs again, feeling the wetness there. She gasped in pleasure as he touched her bare flesh, holding herself still with an effort as he teased and caressed, touching everywhere but where he knew she most wanted his fingers. 

At last she let a moan escape her, and he rewarded the sound of pleasure by letting his fingers glide across the swollen nub. Anora gave a keening little cry, clutching at his arm, the nails digging in. Wulfric rubbed harder, feeling her head rest against his shoulder for the first time. Her eyes were closed, her hips pushing against his hand, and he kept up steady, rhythmic movements as she panted, clinging to him. 

“What is—This is—Warden!”

“Don’t fight it,” he urged, surprised by her inexperience. Cailan must have been even worse than he’d been led to believe. Or more self-centered, certainly. “Let go.” He kept his fingers moving, slowly, drawing the feelings out in her.

“AH! Ah, ohhhh ….” she gasped at last, stiffening in his arms as her core pulsed against Wulfric’s fingers. He held her, letting her body rest and recover. Her eyes opened, meeting his, and she pushed herself away from him, her hands moving automatically to straighten her clothing, fluttering helplessly when she remembered she wasn’t wearing any. “I am … sorry.”

“You are? That was delightful.” Wulfric grinned.

“I am not accustomed to … losing control in that fashion.”

“That’s what made it delightful.” 

“I … suppose you will want to … finish?”

He had certainly intended to complete his exploration of Anora’s passions, to commit himself to this road, but as he stood there looking at her he found himself uninterested. Worse than uninterested—his mind of its own volition contrasted Anora’s voluptuous curves and sweet blonde loveliness with the sharper angles and more unique beauty of Morrigan. Wulfric couldn’t lie to himself any longer. Here in the presence of a woman he had considered pledging his troth to, he had to admit what he had never expected—that he had fallen in love with the apostate.

That there was no hope for him he knew perfectly well. Morrigan had squashed any attempts at sentiment. She had made it clear that the relief of their bodies was one thing, but any thought of a future must fall by the side of her purpose, which she had never deigned to explain to him. But whether Morrigan could ever be induced to return his sentiments or not was immaterial. Knowing, admitting, that he loved her, he found to his utter astonishment that he no longer desired any other woman. The erection he had sported earlier had faded. 

Anora, still naked as the day she was born, said, “Wulfric?”

“I don’t believe I do want to finish,” he said gently. “You’ve had a long day.”

“I see.” She stood straight, looking remarkably dignified given her unclothed state. “You don’t find me satisfactory.”

He shook his head. “You would be perfectly satisfactory. Enjoyable. But not for me.”

“What changed?”

“I find … that I am in love with someone else. I’ve never been in love before—it’s going to take some getting used to.”

She began searching for her discarded clothing, dressing hastily, glaring at him when he tried to help. 

“Anora, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. When I came in here today, I was at loose ends, I didn’t know where to go or what to do. I saw a chance to do some good for my country, prevent a civil war. I never meant to—“

“Didn’t you?” She didn’t believe a word, that much was obvious. He hadn’t done their cause any favors at all, he reflected. 

“Truly, I never meant to hurt you.”

“Get out, Warden.”

He nodded unhappily, going as he was bidden. Now what would they do? They would simply have to win at the Landsmeet. He turned his steps toward Eamon’s library, researching history and precedents far into the wee hours.


	12. Dark Ritual

Wulfric closed Riordan’s door behind him, leaning against it with a sigh. This last week had been the longest he could remember and tonight’s revelations were one drop too many in the cup. 

The Landsmeet had been filled with one surprise after another. First, that Anora hadn’t betrayed them, as Wulfric had expected she would after the disastrous end of his night with her. It was only later, when he glimpsed Leliana stealthily reentering the castle looking glowingly happy, that the bard had explained why Anora’s feelings toward them had been softened. Apparently Leliana had been able to accomplish what Wulfric had not, and it seemed she had lost her heart in the process of seducing the former queen. Wulfric wasn’t certain what future there was for the Teyrna of Gwaren and an Orlesian bard, but he was happy they were happy.

The second surprise came when Alistair, after spending months bemoaning his heritage and fighting against the fate his bloodline tied him to, stepped forward and loudly proclaimed that he would take his father’s throne. Wulfric had never seen his friend so firm and decisive before, and he had been filled with pride. He had been one of the few who weren’t stunned when Alistair announced that Ser Cauthrien would be ruling with him as his Queen. The two of them made a nice balance politically, and they were certainly good for one another.

Loghain’s refusal to submit to the overwhelming vote against him was perhaps the least surprising outcome, second only to Alistair’s bloody ending of the duel. Wulfric couldn’t blame his friend for his anger. He’d suspected this end would come when he allowed Alistair to fight—but he couldn’t take Alistair’s vengeance away from him, not when his friend had cleared the dungeons so that he could take his own revenge on Howe. There had been a lot of shouting from Alistair and Cauthrien’s room that night, but they seemed to have reached an accord on the the topic, or at least, decided not to talk about it.

Following the Landsmeet, they had journeyed to Redcliffe, expecting the Archdemon and the horde to be massing in the south, only to be met with the shocking news that the horde was on its way to Denerim. Wulfric felt this as a personal failure—instead of playing politics, he should have made it his business to know where the darkspawn were. At the very least, he should have set up a courier system, or had the Dalish out hunting for the darkspawn’s whereabouts. Anything would have been better than just blindly trusting them to be where he had expected them to be.

Riordan’s little acid bomb was the last straw. Wulfric had always known that being a Grey Warden came with no guarantees, and he had weathered all the negatives—the shortened lifespan, the nightmares, the inability to have children—philosophically, but he hadn’t been prepared to lose his life and his very soul in the contest with the Archdemon. Twenty years old and the time ahead of him was now shortened to weeks, perhaps, but more probably days. Because of course Alistair could not be the one; Ferelden needed its King. And Riordan would make the attempt, but the man had clearly been weakened by his stay in Howe’s dungeon and by the approach of his Calling. Wulfric couldn’t count on Riordan to be able to take that last blow.

The truly frightening part, the part Wulfric would never have admitted, was that somewhere deep down, he wasn’t sure he minded. There was a certain amount of resignation inside him that he didn’t like and couldn’t help. He had simply lost too much; he no longer knew where his place was or even where he wanted it to be.

He pushed himself off Riordan’s door and walked down the hall. The door to his room was open, and he frowned. Oghren would be sunk in a drunken stupor by now, Sten sleeping the sleep of the stolid, Alistair and Cauthrien in their room, Zev and Wynne in theirs, a development which depressed him not a little bit. Even the assassin and the old mage had found at least a temporary happiness. He thought he’d glimpsed Morrigan flying about outside earlier, and didn’t expect her back until morning. She didn’t like Redcliffe. Leliana might be in his room, but she had tried to avoid being alone with him ever since he’d broken things off between them.

Wulfric stepped into the room and stopped in his tracks as Morrigan turned away from the fire to look at him. “’Tis only I,” she said.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was more harsh than he’d intended, and he thought she looked hesitant for a moment. 

“You have just come from your fellow Warden’s room. No doubt he informed you of what you can expect when the Archdemon dies.”

“Yes, he—“ Wulfric broke off, staring at her. “What do you know about it?”

“I know all.”

Rage filled him. Wulfric flew at her, his hand closing around her throat. “Why didn’t you tell me? What games have you been playing?” He shook her, the anger boiling up inside him. How could he have trusted her, loved her, when all this time she had been holding vital secrets behind her back?

“Unhand me.” Morrigan’s eyes looked straight into his, unblinking. “I will tell you what I know. That is why I am here.”

“Fine.” Wulfric let her go, crossing the room to stay out of arm’s reach of her. 

“Flemeth sent me with you for a purpose. As, indeed, she saved your lives for a purpose.”

“But Flemeth’s dead. I killed her for you; why would her purposes be relevant?”

Morrigan faced him defiantly. “I wished my mother dead and myself safe. I did not deny who I am, nor renounce my task.” 

“All right, so your mother’s hands are still on you from the grave, forcing you to dance to her dark tune.”

“I do not dance. I follow my own wishes, not hers.”

“Have it your own way.” He folded his arms. “What do you want here, then?”

“I have a way out. A loop in your hole.”

Wulfric tried to wrap his brain around that image for a moment. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Oh, you are maddening! What does it matter which words I use? I am trying to save your fool life!”

“Are you? Why?”

Morrigan had no ready answer for that. She stood with her mouth open for a moment, then shut it, turning back toward the fire. “If you do not wish to hear what I have to say, ‘tis no matter. Perhaps I will speak with Alistair.”

Wulfric laughed. “Alistair wouldn’t give you the time of day in the best of moments; certainly not now.”

“He would if I offered him a way to return to his paramour.”

Despite himself, his heartbeat quickened. “And is that what you’re offering me? A way to return to my paramour?”

“Which one?” 

He wished he could see her face, see if she hoped it was her. “Which one do you think? You’re the only one who matters to me, Morrigan.”

“That is … beside the point,” she said, but her voice was more breathless than usual. “Do you want to hear my proposal, or do you not?”

“Tell me.”

“There is a ritual, performed in the dark of night upon the eve of battle.”

“The eve of battle won’t be for several more days,” Wulfric pointed out.

“Must you be so literal?” She glared at him over her shoulder. “The eve of battle is meant figuratively. In point of fact it must be several days before the battle, because the purpose of the ritual is to conceive a child—“ she paused at Wulfric’s shocked intake of breath, then went on hurriedly, “and the child must have a little time to develop before the Archdemon is killed.”

“If you know so much,” Wulfric said, struggling with the turmoil inside him, “you must know Grey Wardens are barren.” Suddenly it seemed like the sweetest thing he could think of, to lie with Morrigan once more, to know that a child would be conceived, one who would be made of the love they bore for each other. Even his deeply bred distrust of such dark magics fell before the shining hope that some part of him might live on, with her.

“I said it was a ritual, did I not? Magic can overcome the taint.” Morrigan turned toward him, and he thought he saw a softness in her face. “All the same, I could not accomplish the ritual with Riordan, as he has been tainted too long. Your taint and Alistair’s are fresh. I can guarantee the end result of the ritual.”

Her words, so measured and unemotional, broke the spell that was on him. “Why, Morrigan? What will happen to this child?”

She took a deep breath, and Wulfric steeled himself for what was to come. If Morrigan hesitated to speak of it, he was not going to like it.

“When the Archdemon is killed, the essence of the old god will seek the nearest tainted creature. It will enter the child; through the ritual, the child will cleanse the Archdemon’s soul of the taint, and will retain the soul. The child will grow up with the soul of an old god.” Morrigan waited, her eyes on him.

“That is … an irresponsible amount of power to put in one person’s hands,” Wulfric said.

“Perhaps. We know not what the ultimate result will be, what manifestation the old god’s power may take.” 

“You’re proposing this, but you don’t know what’s going to happen?”

“I know that I am preserving a piece of the old ways, cleansing it of the infernal taint, and saving your life in the process. Must I know more than that?”

“You are awakening powers you don’t even comprehend, and you want me to be a part of this?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. Very much.” 

Suddenly the air was thick between them, Morrigan’s beautiful golden eyes more vulnerable than he had ever seen them. Wulfric crossed the room, standing before her but not touching her. “Are you here only because of this ritual?”

“I—No.” She glanced away, and in a shadow of her usual crisp tones said, “But I shall go to Alistair if you deny me. Do not think that I will not.”

“We both know he’d never agree to anything you proposed. But that doesn’t matter.” His blood was hot in his veins, and he knew he could no sooner leave this room without feeling her one last time than he could fly. “I’ll do it.”

“You will?”

“As you must have known I would. This is a hard place you’re putting me in, Morrigan. I don’t want to die, and I don’t want to take the risk that my friend might have to die if I fail to accomplish our task. And now here you are, asking me to take part in a ritual that will bind a powerful being here in the body of an innocent child—my child; our child—and create untold amounts of chaos in the world. Any sensible, rational, Maker-fearing man would say no and send you from the room. But I can’t do that. I’m willing to dare the consequences to spend one last night with you, to create a child with you, because I love you.”

Morrigan shook her head, turning away from him, but not before he saw a flash in her golden eyes. “Please, this—is not necessary. We have never felt the need to paint pretty pictures for one another before.”

“It’s not a picture, Morrigan.” He grasped her wrist. “All this time, it’s been you.”

“Do not be foolish.”

“I can’t help it. If being in love with you is foolish, it’s too late for me to wise up.”

Morrigan’s lips parted, her eyes wide, and her body swayed toward him. Then she stepped away, breaking the eye contact sharply enough to hurt. “You know that you cannot be—I cannot stay. Once this happens, the child and I must go where we are safe, and you cannot accompany us.”

Knowing her, Wulfric would have expected as much. He wouldn’t have expected the gnawing hunger that rose in him already to care for her as she carried his child, to watch their child be born and grow. “Where will you go?”

“I cannot tell you that.” It was a barely heard whisper. “Does that alter your answer?”

“No.” But the word was unnecessary, lost as it was in his movement, as he reached forward and swept her into his arms. His mouth came down hungrily on hers, and he could feel the answering desperation in her as her mouth opened eagerly.

It was like coming home to be kissing her again, her slender body fitting so nicely against his larger one. Roughly he ran his hands through her hair, scattering the pins that held it up. If it hurt, she gave no murmur of protest. Wulfric cradled her against him, one hand cupping the side of her face, his thumb stroking her delicate skin. Morrigan’s arms were around him, sliding underneath his shirt. He trembled under her touch. As often as he had kissed women before, this was all new. It felt like the first kiss he’d ever had—it was the first time he was holding someone his heart wanted, instead of just his body.

He was eager to have her, to sink himself inside her, but he wanted the night to last a lifetime, as well. He held her face in his hands, kissing her cheeks and her forehead and her nose and her eyes. “I’ve missed you, Morrigan,” he whispered.

She pulled back, untangling herself from his embrace. “The ritual … The ritual requires this to be accomplished in a specific manner. Disrobe, please.” She was trying to be all business, but her eyes gave her away. Her gaze was glued to his fingers as he began to unlace his shirt. “Slowly.” The word fell from her lips uncontrollably.

“It matters to the ritual how quickly I get undressed?” he teased, but his movements slowed.

He couldn’t resist touching his chest and stomach the way he longed for her to do, and Morrigan, watching, licked her lips. “You shall make me forget my purpose, if you continue in that manner.”

His fingers paused on the buttons of his trousers, his eyes meeting hers seriously. “Would that be such a bad thing?” 

“I—“ Morrigan glanced away, biting her lip. “I must do this. Now, finish,” she commanded.

“As you like, my lady.” With one motion, he pushed trousers and smallclothes down. He was hard already, and he stroked himself.

“Desist from that at once.”

With some reluctance, he did so. “What now?”

“Lie down.” He walked over to the bed, lying down on his back with his hands beneath his head. “Remain still, and be silent.”

That wasn’t easy, not with Morrigan leaning over him, lighting candles, her top brushing his face and her scent all around him. He closed his eyes, breathing her in, then opened them as she retreated across the room. She was humming something under her breath and the light in the room was growing brighter as she sang, forming a glowing ring around the bed. Wulfric felt a chill of fear—what in the Maker’s name was he getting himself into?—but it was quelled as he watched Morrigan shrug the loose blouse off her shoulders, her small white breasts coming into view. Her leather skirt quickly followed, and she shook her hair back before approaching the bed.

“Relax,” she whispered as she climbed on top of him.

“With that view? Impossible.”

“I did not say you could speak.” But the corners of her mouth turned up slightly, and her eyes warmed.

“How do you propose to quiet me?”

She chuckled in the back of her throat. Her hair brushed softly against his cheeks as their mouths met. The kiss was slow and sweet, and Wulfric lost himself in the taste and feel of her above him. He had no idea how long the kiss lasted before she sat up, the movement of her lower body against his causing Wulfric’s breath to catch.

“Now,” Morrigan whispered, placing a slender finger on his lips, “silent and still, or you could ruin all.”

He kissed her finger, smiling up at her, and she returned the smile before shaking her head sternly. 

She moved backward until she was kneeling between his legs, murmuring an incantation. Wulfric saw the glowing ring of light around the bed rise into the air, spinning around them. The motion was making him dizzy, and he laid his head back on the pillows, closing his eyes. He fought against the moan that clamored to be uttered when her mouth closed around his length, working him slowly. The room was getting warmer, and it felt as though the bed was spinning now. He clung to the bedposts, clenching his teeth to keep from calling out her name, losing himself in the dizziness and the pleasure. Wulfric was only dimly aware when she mounted him, her body mimicking the slow, rhythmic movements of her mouth. He could hear her gasping out words and phrases in a language he didn’t understand.

And then he was falling, spinning in space as he fell through layers of soft, warm clouds, the climax like nothing he had ever felt before. The abyss he fell into seemed depthless, and he knew nothing more until he woke the next morning, alone in the bed, feeling strangely weak and drained.

With some difficulty, he got out of bed, stumbling into his clothes, feeling as off-balance as he had the morning of his worst hangover, but instead of nauseous he was somehow euphoric.

In the dining room, Morrigan was breakfasting lightly on an egg and a piece of toast. Oghren was there, plowing into a plate of food any Grey Warden would have been proud to tackle, and Wynne, with a bowl of institutional oatmeal. With those prying eyes present, Wulfric knew there was little chance he would be able to talk to Morrigan, and she kept her eyes firmly on her plate.

It didn’t surprise him; she had been upfront with him last night about the consequences of the ritual. But somewhere in his memory was the hazy recollection of Morrigan pulling the covers over him, bending over to kiss him on the forehead, and whispering, “You have done well … my love.”

And that would have to be enough … for now.


	13. At Last

Dawn was just touching the depths of the marsh with pale fingers. Wulfric got out of his blankets as soon as he could see, making his way painstakingly slowly through the muck. Somewhere ahead of him was Morrigan, he was certain of it, and she needed him; of that he was certain as well. The ring on his finger was evidence enough of that.

He had lost track of how many days it had been since he woke in the middle of the night with the ring emitting a strange heat on his finger. It had first appeared in the days he spent recovering from slaying the Archdemon—when he fully regained consciousness after that ordeal, Morrigan was no longer there, but the ring was. Somehow he had known the ring was from her, and it had been a comfort to him in the days that came after, as he fulfilled his duties as Warden Commander, dealing with the strange darkspawn the Architect and making Vigil's Keep the home of the Grey in Ferelden.

When the ring began giving off this odd heat, he had known, as surely as he knew it was Morrigan's ring, that she was in trouble. And with that knowledge had come the answer to a question he hadn't even known he was asking, that of his own future.

It had been easier than he had expected, stepping down from the Wardens, but it had taken longer than he had hoped it would. And then he had to find her, studying maps and hunting for her through the marshes of the Korcari Wilds. The ring had heated up further over time, and Wulfric grew increasingly more concerned as he worked his way further into the Wilds. He imagined it must be near time for the baby, and the thought of her giving birth to his child alone, possibly having some type of unimaginable difficulty, maddened him until he was ready to tear the very trees from the ground if it would open up a clearer path.

Today was the closest he had come. He felt sure he was near to her—the birds in the trees, the wolves on the ground, the very spiders seemed to be shepherding him, showing him the way, and he followed gladly. Unbeknownst to him, the creatures led him around the wards Morrigan had set until he was near enough to smell the woodsmoke ahead, the ring burning on his finger, and hurry though he might, he couldn't move fast enough.

And then the ring abruptly lost a great deal of its heat. Wulfric stared blankly down at his hand, his heart thudding in his chest. Was he too late? Had he come all this way only to fail when he was so close? He forced his tired legs to move faster, a curl of smoke rising above the trees. As he drew closer, he could see a small hut, camouflaged within the trees. His progress was painfully slow, his movements hampered by a kind of slowness previously reserved only for his worst nightmares.

At last he was there, standing in front of the hut, dreading what he would find inside. Was he too late? His heart in his throat, he burst through the door, looking wildly around him.

Morrigan lay on a small bed in the corner, looking pale and exhausted and absolutely breathtaking. She looked up as he came in, her golden eyes narrowing. "You are late."

Whatever reaction Wulfric had been expecting, that wasn't it. After the near-panic he'd been in since the ring's heat began to ebb, he was unable to think of a response. He stood there, staring at her, and Morrigan sighed in exasperation.

"I expected you days ago."

"You did? But you said … You told me I was never going to see you again."

"I did say that." She looked down into the covers. "That was my original intention. And yet … I could not leave Denerim without leaving a way that I could communicate with you, and as my term drew closer … it became apparent that I could not do this alone. And, further, that I did not want to."

He grinned at her, overwhelmed with relief that she was safe. "You couldn't have decided that eight months ago?"

A faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "A great deal has happened in the past eight months. Your son was a very active child in the womb, and no less troublesome during his birth." She winced.

"My son?" Wulfric breathed the words, as if they themselves were as fragile as an infant.

"Yes. Would you like to meet him? You may look, if you promise not to wake him." She drew aside a corner of the covers, and Wulfric moved as quietly as he could to look down into the tiny, perfect face of their child.

"Does he have a name?"

Morrigan nodded sleepily. "Arthur."

"Arthur," Wulfric repeated. His hand hovered over the baby's head, but didn't touch the soft, dark hair. Instead he turned to Morrigan, brushing back a lock of her hair. She pressed her face against his hand. "Morrigan."

"Wulfric?"

"I'm never leaving the two of you again. We can go anywhere you want; I'll need to say good-bye to Fergus, but other than that, I have no more ties. But I won't be parted from you."

"Why else do you think I called you here?" she asked in a semblance of her usual tart tone. Her eyes opened. "I gained more in the Blight than I ever dreamed existed, and then I let it go. Perhaps there is strength in love, as well as weakness. I shall enjoy finding out." She slid down into the covers, her head sinking back into the pillows.


End file.
